


Inches and Falling

by Pinkerton



Series: Sowing Season [3]
Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Humor, Blow Jobs, Break Up, Drug Use, Drunk Sex, Family Feels, Friends to Lovers, Hazeapalooza style hazing, Head Injury, Heteronormativity, Homophobia, Homophobic Language, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, M/M, Minor Injuries, Pills, Pining, Pre-Canon, Slow Burn, Vomiting, and they were roomates, compulsory heterosexuality, teenage boys fighting with words poorly, teenage drinking, this will earn its rating eventually
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-02
Updated: 2018-08-05
Packaged: 2019-02-27 06:01:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 33,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13241970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pinkerton/pseuds/Pinkerton
Summary: The second year of Kent's time in the Q, from end of summer days in Montreal, to a season full of victory, injury, playoffs, friendship, fights, and of course, Jack Zimmermann.





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A victorious return to Canada, featuring fancy dinners, surprises, and more than a little jealousy.

“You are saving my life.” Kent dodges Kristen as she tries to grab the cordless phone out of his hand. “If I had to drive up with my parents and,” he raises his voice, “my awful, annoying sister, I would -- ow! Stop, brat!” 

It’s too late, though. He’d misjudged how long her arms are.

Kristen runs across the room, cradling the phone to her ear. “Hi, Jack, are you coming to get my pain in the ass brother and if yes can you come, like, as early as -- HEY!”

“Suck it,” Kent whispers as he wrestles the phone out of her pointy, pointy fingers. She angles herself so she can step on his foot, but he sees it coming and twists just right to break free, his prize in hand. 

“Hah!” He leaps over the coffee table and dashes up the stairs. He can hear the tinny sound of Jack’s voice, but he waits till he’s safely locked in his room to flop on his bed, panting, and nestle the phone between his ear and shoulder. “Didn’t hear you. I was running up the stairs. What’d you say?” 

“Eugh. I was saying how happy I am to be an only child.”

“Haha, yeah, sure.” Kent shoves a pile of laundry over so he can sit on the bed. Packing for his return to Canada is not going well. “So, you’ll meet me at the airport? What am I looking for?”

“Me?” Jack’s voice gets far away for a second. Kent can just make out him saying something in French, but he can’t hear the distinct words.

“Yes, obviously, but what’s your new car look like?”

“Oh. It’s a black Subaru SUV.”

“Now that’s a birthday gift.” Kent sits on the floor and starts matching pairs of socks. “You know the boys -- “

“ -- can take their own shitty cars to practice every day.”

“Damn right. Do you --”

“-- it’s already in the player.”

“Well,” Kent says, holding up two socks. One is definitely black. The other is...navy blue? He shrugs and twists them together. “I got a thing to hook up my iPod, too. I’ll bring that for sure.”

He can hear a chair scrape against the floor as Jack stands up. “My mom said I’m supposed to tell you, _again_ , that your parents are very welcome to stay here for a few days if they’d rather drive you up than you -- what is it again?”

“It’s not that hard to understand, buddy. My dad’s driving me across the border, then I’m on a bus to Toronto and a flight to Montreal.”

“That’s going to take as long as it would to just drive here.” Jack’s voice is taking on an edge of impatience. “It’s a stupid plan.”

Kent realizes he’s grinding his teeth together and forces himself to relax. He doesn’t need Jack to tell him that this trip is ridiculous. He and his dad had sat down for an entire evening looking at how to get him back to Montreal, pulling up plane and train and bus schedules and getting driving maps out from the family’s TripTik collection. 

When the family schedule had been laid out, filled in with his mom’s twelve-hour shifts at the hospital, his dad’s extended hours doing inventory before the yearly audit, and Kristen’s weekend cheer bootcamp, his dad had taken off his reading glasses and sighed. “Are you sure you need to be there so early? Our weekends free up after your sister’s cheer camp ends. We all go up then, stay with the Zimmermanns. A little more time with you before you’re gone till Christmas.” 

“I’d like that.” The pages of the map for New York were soft as Kent ran his fingers along the trail of the Hudson River. “But if I can get to Montreal before the 10th, I can do some training with Jack’s guy and he’s, uh. Well, my trainer’s amazing, but this guy --”

“I get it, kiddo,” his dad cut him off. “It’s been a good summer, and you need to get back. Your mother and I just miss you.”

Kent cleared his throat. “I miss you, too.”

“So, maybe if we get you to Toronto…”

Kent could relay any part of this to Jack on the phone, now, but what’s the point? Jack has never had a single thing standing in the way of his hockey; not money, not siblings, not time. 

Kent’s family has given up so much so he can play. 

“Parse?” Jack’s voice echoes through the line.

“Yeah, sorry. Zoned out. Hey, no matter the path, I’ll still be seeing you on the 4th, right?”

“I guess so.”

“Tell your mom thanks for the offer, though, and that my parents definitely want to get together sometime this year.” They chat for a bit longer, and Jack seems to have unwound a bit by the end of the conversation.

After hanging up, Kent surveys the wreckage of his room. He has an ultimatum from his mother to have everything ready by the end of today. In theory, all the random piles of clothes and hockey gear and odds and ends do fit into the empty duffle bags buried in his closet. 

He just has no idea how.

He flops back onto a pile of sweats and lies there, moaning softly, till Kristen starts banging on the door. He unlocks it and hands the phone out to her; instead of taking it, she barges in without an invitation, takes one look around the room and laughs. “Mom’s going to kill you.”

“Yup.”

“C’mon, loser. No way a Parson’s going out in a pile of his own laundry.” She spends the next two hours bossing him around and dragging his folding skills.

His bags are packed by dinner, and his room is clean by eight. They ditch their parents to walk to the local Dairy Queen and get dipped cones in celebration. Kent, graciously, pays.

* * * *

Jack is waiting in the parking garage, as promised, standing next to his giant SUV. Kent ditches his luggage cart and flings himself at Jack with enough momentum to almost knock him over. Jack wraps him in a hug, and Kent sinks into it for a few long seconds of indulgence before pulling away. 

Jack starts loading bags into his trunk as Kent kicks the tires and whistles. “Nice wheels. Compensating much?” 

Jack punches him in the arm, hard. “Whatever, it’s great in snow. Shove your backpack in the back. My parents want to take you out for dinner, and if we miss the reservations my mom will kill me.” 

Kent throws his bags in the trunk and gets into the front seat. “Your parents want to what?”

Jack slides into the driver's seat and smacks Kent’s hand away from the radio dials. “Take you to dinner.” He backs up like a senior citizen, his body fully twisted to look behind him and one arm behind the passenger seat.

Kent stores this tidbit away for future chirping and assesses the sound system situation, fiddling with the knobs until he hits the CD deck. It only takes another second for music to blare out the speakers, then quickly be turned off.

“Steering wheel controls,” Jack says, looking smug as he drives toward the exit.

“Aww, c’mon.”

“When we’re on the road, okay?” Jack shifts into drive and they start their way down to the exit.

“Yeah, fine. So where are we going to meet your parents? And shouldn’t I be taking you out since I missed your birthday? You’re clear to get in the left lane, by the way.” Traffic’s not too bad, and Jack’s driving is fairly solid for someone who just got a license. 

“It’s a very expensive steakhouse, but I’m sure if you want to pick up the bill--”

“I’m all wrinkled and I won’t know which fork to use, ughhhh.” Kent leans forward and thunks his head against the dash. 

Jack hits a button on the steering wheel, and hard guitar chords start pumping out the, Kent has to admit, formidable speakers. He pulls himself upright just as Eminem begins to rap about having one shot to make it.

The pump up playlist works its magic like always, and by the time they get to the restaurant, Kent’s feeling good. And hungry.

* * * *

There are only two forks at his place setting. He can handle that. He can also, much to his shock, handle talking to a living sports legend and a former model for two hours while eating the best steak he’s ever had in his life. He does drop a green bean on his lap, but only Alicia sees it, and Kent figures she’s too classy to say anything. 

She is not, however, too classy to help Kent rope the staff into singing Happy Birthday to Jack. 

Bob has a surprisingly good singing voice. 

Alicia does not. 

Jack looks like he wants to die.

Kent is so happy. 

Dinner kicks off a run of great days in Montreal. He and Jack start their morning with training, mixing skating and drills with biking all over Mont Royale and running at the track by the Olympic stadium. 

Kent can just barely keep up with Jack. 

While his trainer in Buffalo was good, Jack’s is on a whole different level, and Kent tries not to think about how much Bob must be shelling out for him to tag along. Bob never brings it up, so Kent trains and lets Jack charge their massive post-workout lunches on his credit card. 

Kent also tries not to think about how broad Jack’s shoulders have gotten, or how the puppy fat that clung to his body has melted away, leaving sharp cheekbones and the beginnings of a six pack. He’s got silvery stretch marks on his biceps, faint against his pale skin, where he’s packing on muscle faster than his body can keep up.

The flush on Kent’s face is easy to blame on the summer heat, at least. 

One morning, they arrive at the rink to find two figures waiting for them on the ice -- Henri, the trainer from hell, and Bob. “Hey boys,” he says. “Thought we could have a little fun.” 

“Holy crap.” Kent stands frozen as Bob chuckles at him.

“No, papa,” Jack grumbles. “This is embarrassing.”

“It’s only embarrassing if I beat you. C’mon, let’s play!” With that, Bob takes off like a shot, and Jack speeds after him. Kent races to catch up with Jack, and two hours pass in a joyful blur. 

Eventually, Bob leaves to go to a meeting and Jack drives them home. 

“You look like an idiot,” Jack says. “You’ve been smiling all day.”

Kent hums his agreement. “I got to play hockey with Bad Bob.” 

“And me,” Jack says, cutting off a driver in the next lane. “I was also there.”

“Yeah, I noticed when you kept beating me on the accuracy drills.”

“Oh, so you did know I was on the ice.”

Kent sighs. “It was really nice of your dad to come out. I’ve been skating since I was two and my dad has never even tried to skate.”

“I don’t think you can really compare our dads.”

“Yeah, probably not.” Kent rests a hand against his stomach, debating. He’s never not hungry, it’s always a matter of degree. He could definitely go for more than a snack. “Hey, can we get crepes?”

“Seriously? If you eat any more crepes, you’ll turn into one.”

“Aww, please? They’re so good. You know you like the one with the ham and the Swiss cheese and that mustard, and then we can split a nutella -- ”

“--and banana, goddammit.” Jack grumbles, but he puts on his blinker and starts to navigate into the city. 

Twenty minutes later, they’re shoved into a nook at a tiny creperie down a side street, one that tourists almost always miss, but the locals keep packed. Kent’s stuffed full of deliciousness and exhausted from their workout. 

He tips his head onto Jack’s shoulder. “Can we go back to your place and nap?” He feels Jack shift as one arm comes to rest across Kent’s shoulders, and the other reaches to grab Kent’s camera off the table.

“When did you start bringing this thing everywhere?” Jack turns it on with a flick of his thumb and prods at the buttons.

“Dunno. This summer? Thought it’d be nice to have more pictures, not just of vacation and stuff.” Kent takes the camera from him and helps him scroll through the photos, first from the past few days, then a backwards tale of Kent’s summer. Jack already knows about a lot of what Kent’s family did, but he stops to ask questions about the photos of Robbie and of Kent’s cousins, then comes to a complete stop on a photo of Brian.

Brian’s mid roll at the bowling alley, blue swirled ball just about to leave his finger tips. It’s framed so that he’s the only person in the photo, and the lighting looks good, too.

So does his ass, but Kent’s going to keep that thought to himself.

“Who’s this?” Jack zooms in. “His stance isn’t centered.”

“It’s my friend, Brian.” 

“I don’t remember you talking about him.” Jack’s tone is off.

Kent lifts his head off Jack’s shoulder just enough to see his expression. He can’t read it, so he adjusts himself back against Jack’s side and lets it go. “Friend of some friends. Nice guy.”

Jack starts to say something as their waiter comes by with the bill and offers to take a photo. 

“Smile, Zimms,” Kent says, so Jack hands over the camera and squeezes Kent’s shoulder as he says “cheese” and Kent says ‘fromage.”

Kent sits up and grabs the phone back to look at the shot while Jack pays. His smile is crooked and he’s squinting. Jack’s smile is smaller, but Kent knows Jack’s fake smiles, and this isn’t one of them. His eyes are crinkled just a tiny bit, a sure sign of actual emotion.

They both look happy.

Jack leans over to look, too. “Huh. You look good. You should send that one to Marc.” 

“Yeah, I will. I’m super sleepy, let’s get out of here.”

Back at Jack’s house, Kent lies down in the guest room. His eyes are heavy and his muscles sore, his body begging for rest. Before he sets an alarm for 90 minutes, he grabs his camera again. He looks at the last photo carefully, taking in the way Jack’s fingers curl against his shoulder, zooming in where their bodies are pressed tightly side by side, where he ends and Jack begins. 

He doesn’t send it to Marc.

* * * *

“Tell me where we’re going,” Kent complains from where he’s wedged between Jack and Alicia in the back of a cab.

“I’m not sure what part of ‘belated birthday surprise’ you’re not understanding,” Jack mumbles as he looks out the window. 

Alicia just smiles and pats Kent’s leg. She’s wearing a fitted, low cut top, her hair is all tousled wavy perfection, and she smells like everything good in the world. 

Seated between her and Jack, who is wearing perfectly cut jeans and a button down to devastating effect and also smells incredible, Kent is starting to lose it a little. His palms are definitely sweating, and he’s having trouble following the conversation. 

When Alicia has the driver pull over for a moment so she can hop out and get a bottle of water at a gas station, Jack leans over, and asks, low and teasing, “Are you sure that you really like boys or is it just that you are so terrible at being around attractive women?’

Kent smacks his arm. “Attractive, rich, powerful women, get it right.”

“Yes, my mom is pretty great.” Jack sits back, smug and satisfied with his joke just as Alicia rejoins them. 

“Okay, boys, ready or not.” The car starts to move and Kent mouths “I hate you,” to Jack.

When the car stops again a few moments later, Kent feels his jaw drop. “No,” he gasps. “You didn’t.”

“Happy belated birthday, Kenny.” Jack grabs his hand and tugs him out of the car. 

“Oh my god. Is this really --”

“Drag Queen Karaoke, hosted by Miss Ally Sinnermann,” Alicia confirms. “Shake a leg, Kent.”

Kent lets himself be pulled into the club. They breeze past the bouncer and are quickly seated at the side of the stage. The music stops with a record scratch sound effect, and a voice booms through the club. “Well look what the cat dragged in! As I live and breath, Alicia, get yourself up here and give me a hug!” Alicia laughs as she’s lifted on stage.

Jack leans over so Kent can hear him. “Ally used to be her makeup artist.”

“This is the most ridiculous thing ever. I love it. I’m going to die.” He reaches over and downs most of Jack’s cranberry spritzer.

Jack smacks his hand and takes back what’s left of his drink. “Well, if you must die, do it before my mom starts to sing. You’ve heard her around the house. She’s awful.”

Moments minutes later, Alicia does one of the worst, but most enthusiastic, versions of “Thunder Road” Kent has ever heard. The crowd, of course, still goes crazy. 

“I wish they wouldn’t encourage her,” Jack says, even as he sits back down from whistling and clapping.

Kent glares at him. “Shut your mouth, your mom is a national treasure.”

The night passes in a blur, but a few weeks later, an envelope arrives for Kent at the Olsens. It’s a photo of him and Ally Sinnermann dueting on “The Boy is Mine.” 

* * * *

The drive up to Rimouski two days later takes six hours, three of the playlists Kent pre-loaded on his iPod, and two boxes of Timbits. 

They get into the house early enough that Tim and Jan are still at work, but Madeleine is camped out on the couch, still off school and making the most of it. Kent and Jack sit on either side of her and bother her for a good fifteen minutes, but she still won’t admit she missed them. She looks smug when they give up to go dump their bags in the basement, but when they come back up and stand to block the TV they can see her confidence in her victory falter.

“Hey, guys, still can’t see through you. Move.”

“Oh,” Jack says, looking at Kent. “She wants us to move.”

“Does she, now?” Kent and Jack grin at each other, then turn towards Madeleine. 

She’s quick, but she’s no match for them, and soon enough Kent and Jack are frog marching her into the car. The end up at a mini-golf course, and she complains the entire time and comes in first by 3 points. By the time they get home, Jan and Tim have the grill going, so they all gorge on burgers and, later, s’mores. 

Kent’s tired by the time they head down to the basement and wishes he’d unpacked earlier in the day. He’s trying to shove one more t-shirt into a dresser drawer when Jack comes out of the bathroom looking confused. “There’s a giant box of condoms under the sink. Like, a 48 pack.”

“Oh my god,” Kent says, finally shoving the dresser shut. “I’m gonna murder Jan.”

Kent means to go to sleep early, but Jack starts pulling up videos from last season and that’s all it takes for them to pull out notebooks and pens and get to strategizing, watching on their own computers then analyzing and arguing.

It’s watching an entire period of a late season game that does them in. When Kent’s bladder wakes him up, it’s the middle of the night and all their lights are on. Jack’s sound asleep on the couch, so Kent throws a cover over him and shuts off all the lights. 

A few minutes later, he falls asleep in his own bed to the sounds of Jack’s breathing from across the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you summerfrost for the beta!
> 
> Comments and kudos are so, so, so appreciated.
> 
> The title song is by The Format and is great.
> 
> Till soon, my buttercups!


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A handful of days when no one is their best self, or, a chapter in which the men in Kent Parson's life do not do right by our hero.

“But babe, I’ve got a team building thing all of that weekend, and then classes start. Are you sure you can’t come back earlier?” Kent knows he’s whining, but he hasn’t seen Marc in nearly three months. Phone calls and a handful of choppy Skype calls were a poor substitute. “I missed you a lot this summer.”

It’s true. Kent misses him, misses seeing the fondness on his face when they talk, misses having the cadence of his voice not filtered through speakers and distance, misses the smell of his shampoo. He really, really misses his mouth, and his hands, and his thighs, too. He’s frustrated in more ways than one, and he knows it’s bleeding through.

There’s a sound like rustling papers on Marc’s side of the line. “Like I said the first five times, I only see my grandmother once a year, and I am not cutting it short just because you have hockey.” His voice is low, a hiss of irritation Kent feels in his stomach.

Kent grits his teeth. “Right, but you knew my schedule before you planned your trip, and you knew Jack and I would be here earlier -- “

“-- and I told you that if I could work around it I would, but I couldn’t. I’ll see you in two weeks.”

“Fine.” Kent hangs up, mashing the end call button on the house cordless. It’s not as satisfying as slamming a receiver down at all, even when combined with him dramatically tossing it onto the bed, then stomping his feet, just a little.

Jack’s busy sitting on the sofa, looking way too nonchalant. 

Kent groans and sits down next to him, falling over so that his head is on Jack’s thigh, on top of the copy of Sports Illustrated he’d been paging through. “I know you heard that.”

“Sorry,” he says, patting Kent’s hair. “About Marc. Sucks.”

“Yeah, we had kind of planned...you know, since you and I had to be here earlier than the rest of the team, and all. But now, it’s just --” He’s not sure how to finish. It was a fight, just barely. Maybe he was being unreasonable. Maybe Marc was. Maybe they both were?

He chews at his lip a little, pondering.

“I can hear you thinking.” Jack tugs at the magazine, trying to free it from under Kent, but it won’t budge. “Hey, Parse? You okay?”

“Yeah, it’s fine. You know. Stuff changes.” 

“Hmm.” Jack nudges Kent till he sits up and tosses the magazine on the coffee table. “Want to go to the rink and run drills?”

“Does it make me a masochist if I say yes?”

“Probably. Get your gear.”

It only takes them a few minutes to get ready. In the driveway, Kent pauses, his hand on the passenger door of Jack’s car. “Hey, uh, you know it would probably make me feel better if you let --”

“You are never driving this, ever.” Jack gets in and buckles his seat belt, then looks at Kent pointedly through the window.

“Can’t blame a guy for trying,” Kent mumbles, and then they’re on their way.

* * * *

The argument with Marc lingers in the back of Kent’s mind as he and Jack and the coaches prepare for the season, but the worries fade as he laces up his skates for the first team practice. They lost JD in the third round of the draft to the Bruins; he’ll be playing for their AHL team in Providence. Their goalie went first round to Ottawa and is sweating during the pre-season camps, praying to make it to the roster in October. 

Overall, there’s a half dozen new faces. Kent gets their names down at the first practice, has a feel for their hockey the second, and by the third he and Jack are both grinning at each other as Nathan Tremblay, their new left winger, sinks goal after goal.

Their post-practice breakdown goes from the rink to Jack’s car to the kitchen table. Kent is trying to focus on dicing the tomatoes in front of him, but it’s a losing battle. After the fiasco with the avocado last year, Jan doesn’t trust him or Jack with veggies that can’t stand a little abuse.

When his tomatoes are somewhere between “rough dice” and “ragged chunks” Kent gives up and sits back, nestling into his hoodie. “Hey, Jack? So if the coaches put Tremblay on the third line -- ”

“Should be second,” Jack says decisively, carefully sliding the last of the diced onions from his cutting board to a bowl, then starting in on the jalapeños. “He’s faster than Buggsy. He’s almost as fast as you.”

“Is not! Not even close! Anyway, Buggsy won’t like that.” Kent leans over and adds the tomatoes to the onion, then starts half heartedly running his knife over a bunch of cilantro. “Coaches probably won't go for it, either, but I guess we can mention it as something we talked about?”

“They will. Tremblay’s stronger.”

“But --”

“Buggsy will get over it, or not. It doesn’t matter.” 

Kent is turning his words over in his mind. Buggsy isn’t that fast, and his production last year fell off, but he’s put in the time and has been a solid guy on and off the ice. 

He’s about to say this to Jack when Maddy turns from where she’s shredding cooked chicken. “Is Tremblay cute?”

“NO,” Kent and Jack answer in unison.

“Fine, fine. I’ll just have to see for myself at your season opener.” She walks over and picks up the half-prepared bowl of pico de gallo and frowns. “A year plus of Taco Tuesday and you still can’t dice for shit.“

“It’s homestyle!” Kent counters, offended. 

“Mine are fine,” Jack says, adding in his peppers. He smiles smugly at Maddy’s affirming nod, and Kent would have lobbed a tomato stem right at his face if Jan didn’t pick that moment to get home from work. 

She gives them each a kiss on the head, then steals a tortilla chip and assesses the dinner progress. “Oh. Kent did the tomatoes, huh?” She stuffs the chip in her mouth and pats his shoulder. “Good thing you’re pretty, honey.”

.* * * *

The next morning, Jack leaves the coaches’ office fuming, brushing past Kent on his way out without a word. Before Kent can follow him, Coach Martin grabs him by the shoulder. “Parser, you’re going to get practice started today.”

“But -- “ There’s a distant clang as an exterior door is slammed shut. Kent sighs. “Sure, coach.”

Jack comes back to the ice a little later, stands next to Kent at the center line and watches the boys run passing drills. “What have you already done?”

 _And happy morning practice to you, too_ , Kent thinks. “Same as yesterday.”

Jack mumbles something Kent can’t catch before he skates away toward where Buggsy’s leaning on his stick and catching his breath. He has no trouble hearing their conversation, because Jack is shouting. 

To be fair, some of his points about his stick handling issues are on point, but holy shit. Buggsy is trying to catch Kent’s eye over Jack’s shoulder. 

Kent turns toward the rest of the team, who have come to a standstill to gawk at Jack. “C’mon boys,” Kent says, trying to keep his tone light. “I didn’t say to stop.”

The mood levels out pretty quick, and it’s almost just another day of practice.

Almost.

When they’re on their way home, Jack is still glowering, and Kent’s had enough. “What the hell, man? Next time you’re going to pick a fight with the coaches you wanna give me a heads up?”

Jack just huffs. “I told you last night.”

“Yeah, you threw it out there, but we didn’t, like, ‘talk’ talk about it and then you went ballistic this morning. You gotta take this stuff a little easier.”

“There’s no taking it easy in hockey,” Jack manages between clenched teeth. “He shouldn’t be on the line and if you were a better alternate you’d know it, too.”

Kent knows Jack doesn’t really mean it, but it still stings. “Well get used to being disappointed then cause I’m the only goddamn one you’ve got.” Kent stares out the window, feeling every second of the 10 minute drive, hoping Jack will just stay silent the rest of the way. 

He doesn’t. “I thought you were on my side, not the coaches.”

“Yeah, I am, and I feel like I made that pretty clear all the times I said shit like ‘Jack has a good point’ or ‘Jack’s right about that’. The coaches said no. I don’t know what else you want from me.”

Kent didn’t even know it was possible to signal a turn aggressively, but Jack manages it. “Fine,” he says as they come to a stop at a light and he turns to face Kent. “Maybe you want to lose.”

It feels like a hit, like the culmination of every dodgy check Kent’s taken. The late morning sun lights up Jack’s face, falling across the angles of his cheeks and his icy eyes. 

He’s made of sharpness. 

Sometimes, Kent forgets.

He can feel the tension headache bloom up and down the side of his neck, and the heavy burn of rage in his gut. “Go fuck yourself. Act like you earned that fucking C on your sweater, asshole.”

They pull into the driveway, and Kent’s out of the car before it comes to a full stop. 

He spends his day in the upstairs den, reading and fuming. Tim brings him up a plate at dinner and stands for a while with his hand on Kent’s shoulder. It’s heavy and reassuring and makes him miss his dad like crazy. 

He has to clear his throat before he speaks. “Can you take me to practice tomorrow?” 

“Hmm.” Tim takes a long moment. “How about you let me know tomorrow morning if you still need a ride.”

If Kent stares hard enough at the floor, maybe it will open up and swallow him whole. 

“There’s ice cream in the freezer for later.” Tim gives Kent’s shoulder a squeeze and leaves, and Kent can feel the heat rising in his cheeks and the tears welling in his eyes.

He lets himself cry for a bit, sadness and loneliness washing over him. He can’t call his mom because he wouldn’t even manage to get out a greeting before she’d know something is wrong, and he doesn’t really have words to explain Jack to someone who doesn’t know him. He can’t talk to Tim and Jan because they’ll just make everyone sit down together, and he really doesn’t want to do that right now.

He wants someone who’ll tell him that he’s right, that Jack’s a dick, someone to love him without having to share it. 

He wipes his face on his hoodie sleeve and steadies his breathing. A few minutes of rummaging in his backpack and he has the number for Marc’s grandmother’s house. 

No one picks up. 

He eats his dinner without tasting it and hopes Jack will already be asleep when he gets down to their room.

* * * *

They eat breakfast in silence in the morning, Kent accidentally passing Jack his favorite jelly out of habit and getting a hesitant smile in return.

He scowls back and decides that freezing out Jack on the ride to the rink is infinitely preferable to making Tim late to work just to drop him off. 

They get just out of the driveway when Kent’s phone rings. 

It’s Marc.

Kent’s still more than a little pissed at him; and he probably shows when he picks up. “What do you want?”

Marc’s voice, lilting and soft, is a small bit of solace. “Hey, so, I’m coming in today.”

Kent perks up instantly. “Really?” From the corner of his eye he can see Jack glancing at him. 

“Yeah, maybe 3:00?” There’s the sounds of a siren in the background. “Got some paperwork to turn in for school that can’t wait. We can talk for a bit, yeah?”

Kent curls toward the door, shielding the phone. “Are you already driving? I’m not done at the rink till 3:30 at least.”

“I’ll wait for you in the parking lot, then. Is that ok?” 

Kent presses the phone against his cheek and squeezes his eyes shut for a second, focusing on the feel of the keyboard against his cheek. “Yeah, I’ll get done as fast as I can. I can’t wait to see you.”

He walks into practice with a bounce in his step and manages to not say a single word to Jack that isn’t about hockey. His eyes can’t stay off the clock over the bench; it feels like an eternity passes before it hits 3:15 and Jack segues into the last round of exercises. 

“Alright boys.” Jack’s standing at center ice, letting his mouthguard hang out and talking around it. “We’re almost done. Speed drill. First one done gets first shower.” 

Kent smiles in spite of himself as the boys begin to whine.

“Parser always wins those, c’mon.” Jonesy sulks as he skates up to a cone. “You’re throwing it.”

“Be better,” Jack grunts as he picks up his whistle.

Kent shaves a half second off his best time. He’s showered and out the door before half the team is even off the ice. Marc’s car is there, idling, pale exhaust rolling out from the back. He doesn't notice Kent moving toward the car, too busy with the book propped against the steering wheel. 

Kent catches his own reflection in the passenger window before he opens the door; his still wet hair is shoved under his snapback, he has indents from his helmet across his forehead, and he’s grinning. 

His boyfriend is here and he’s probably about an hour away from getting laid 

“Take me somewhere where I can kiss you,” he says as he buckles his seat belt and then grabs Marc’s hand across the console.

Marc pulls away and puts both hands on the wheel as he starts to drive. “I think I need some coffee.”

“Ok, sure. And then take me…” Kent’s words trail off as he looks at Marc’s face. “Babe, are you okay?”

Marc sighs. “Not really.”

Kent lets his hand fall back into his lap.

* * * *

“Kent?” Jack’s voice is uncertain as it floats down from the stairs. “I see your shoes by the door, but I thought you’d be at Marc’s place?” Kent hears him come into the room, then feels the bed dip. He assumes Jack has sat down. Investigating further would require moving from his blanket cocoon, though, and he is currently disinclined to do that.

“Buddy?” Jack prods and hits Kent’s back. “You want to talk?”

“No,” Kent mumbles.”I’m still mad at you.”

“Okay.” Jack starts to move away, and Kent reaches out, grasping what feels like Jack’s leg.

“Don’t go. Please. Don’t --.”

“Okay,” Jack says, shuffling to lay down and curl himself around Kent. “I won’t.”

 

* * * *

 

Kent wakes up sweating under the covers, Jack glommed across his back. He wiggles to free himself and turns to face Jack. “Hey.” He pushes at his shoulder. “Hey, Jack. Wake up.”

Jack opens one eye. “What time is it?”

Kent flicks his eyes toward the alarm clock on the bedside table. “Almost 7. Not late. Dinner’s probably gonna be ready soon.” 

Jack rolls over so he’s flat on his back. “You want me to tell Jan you’re sick?”

“Ugh, fuck, no. That vitamin shake shit she shoves down our throats?” They both shudder. “Anyway, I’m fine.”

“Uh huh,” Jack says. “What’d you guys fight about?”

Kent licks his lips. “Didn’t fight. Got dumped.”

“What?” Jack sits up. Half his hair is sticking straight up, and he has pillow lines on his face. Kent takes a deep breath.

“In the fucking parking lot of the coffee shop.” Kent draws in a shaky breath. It had been the same coffee shop where they’d first met in the spring, and Kent had felt the most bizarre mix of nostalgia and dread when they sat down together. 

Marc had ordered a hazelnut latte, like always, and Kent had only been half listening to him, waiting for him to explain what he meant in the car, hoping that the weirdness in the air around them was just an after effect of the time apart, or maybe the heavy mood that would logically proceed Marc apologizing for being so standoffish and weird about not sticking with his and Kent’s original plans to get back to town at the same time.

Marc had rambled for long enough that Kent’s mind had wandered from hoping he would get to the point of what was bothering him to the much more satisfying topic of what their afternoon together might bring. Marc’s dorm would be empty, his lips would taste like hazelnut, and earlier that summer Brian had told Kent about how to do a thing with his tongue that he was _very_ ready to put to use.

And then Marc started talking about someone named Jean, and Kent tuned in again, realization of where this was going hitting him hard and fast.

They'd met at some reading by an author Kent’s never heard of, and blah blah blah, nothing had really happened yet, but it's headed there, they both feel guilty knowing Marc has a boyfriend, but they're not going to walk away from this, he wished it were different, he felt he had to do this to Kent’s face, etc, etc. 

It all boiled down to the same thing -- so long, Kent. 

Marc had cried. Kent hadn’t, nor had he told him, in the silence that followed the confession, that it was okay, that these things happened, that Kent could absolve him and be happy for him. 

“So,” Marc had said, as the silence stretched around them on the way to drop Kent off.

“So,” Kent had replied. “Thanks for the blowjobs? Have a nice life, I guess?”

Marc had reached for him, and Kent had gotten out of the car, shut the door, and walked in the house without looking back.

Kent doesn’t tell this to Jack, who’s looking at him with concern, his eyes soft and his brow gently furrowed.

“It’s fine,” he lies. “I’m going to be so busy this year, anyway.”

Jack reaches over and gently rubs his thumb over Kent’s cheek, wiping away the tears; Kent hadn’t realized he’d started crying. “Sure.”

He's never been good at keeping his cards close to his chest. “I wasn’t in love with him, or anything, but I liked him and I thought--” he breathes as his voice breaks, collects himself. “I thought he liked me.”

“Pretty sure he did.” Jack’s palm is so warm against Kent’s face; Kent wants to turn into it, kiss the soft skin that hockey has left uncalloused, a part of Jack that doesn’t belong to the team or to the rink or his legacy, doesn’t belong to anyone but him, here, in bed this basement in the middle of nowhere. 

Instead, he draws a shuddering breath and turns away to complain into the pillow. “This sucks.”

“Yeah.” Jack rests his hand on Kent’s shoulder, squeezes just shy of too hard. “Kenny?”

It’s dark in the room, the space between them overheated from their bodies and the blankets, which smell like the deodorant they both use and the cologne that Jack’s parents buy him for his birthday every year. Kent breathes it in as he lifts his head from the pillow and turns to face Jack.

Jack’s much closer than he expected, resting his head on the edge of Kent’s pillow.

The inches between them could be a crack or a chasm, Kent’s not sure. 

Kent watches the way Jack’s eyelashes frame his eyes as he slowly blinks and says nothing. Kent holds his breath as Jack’s glance darts to his eyes, then to his mouth, and back. 

“Jack?”

There’s a pause, long enough for Kent’s hopes to rise up past his heartbreak, long enough for him to feel the impulse to lean towards Jack bubble into the barest movement forward before Jack clears his throat.

“I’m really sorry. About Marc, but also about yesterday. I talked to Buggsy and the coaches.”

It takes a minute for the words to make sense. 

“He’s pretty cool with it now, and we have a plan to help him pick up his speed -- uh, you’re actually a part of it, so we should talk about that --”

“I’m all talked out, kind of.” Kent’s exhausted, his heart and head being pulled by too many feelings for him to even begin to sort through. “Dinner sounds good, though.”

“Meet you upstairs, then.” Jack leaves, and Kent watches the bedside clock. It takes 3 minutes of steady breathing for him to make it out of the bed and up the stairs. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got so stuck on moving forward with the story, and this chapter isn't as long as I would have liked. Ugh. So many things to fit into this year, so many ways to try and organize them.
> 
> Thank you for reading, next chapter I'll be a little nicer to Kent, maybe.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A long weekend on PEI, the return of hockey, and discoveries.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tags have been updated. Also, there is a party scene where people are drunk and public making out happens (don't get your hopes up for who is doing the making out). See end notes for a summary if that raises any concerns.

There’s a warm spot between two sand bars that Kent has been floating in for what feels like hours, alternating between watching the perfect, fluffy clouds pass overhead and closing his eyes to listen to the waves crashing against the nearby beach.

The gentle motion of the water is soothing and as he floats he can ignore the fact that he spent most of the early morning standing waist deep in a river, failing to catch trout as Jack and Bob pulled fish after fish out of the water, his stupid competitive streak preventing him from telling Jack where he could shove his fishing pole and just walking back to the damn cabin to hang with Alicia. 

Kent now marginally knows how to clean a fish, and he resents it.

He’s not sure what Jack did or didn’t say to his parents to get Kent included on the annual ZImmermann Labour Day trip to PEI, but from the glances he’s caught coming his way from Bob and Alicia, he thinks an allusion to a break up may have been made. 

He’s getting that same itchy vibe from Bob that he gets from his own dad, sometimes, when he’s waiting to broach a topic, struggling to put the words together, but it feels stronger coming from Bob, his focus never divided between two biological kids and how ever many foster brothers and sisters are in the house at any given time.

God, he misses his family. 

He tucks his legs and arms in and sinks into the water, letting the homesickness sit heavy over him for as long as he can hold his breath, practicing for next summer, when he’ll move without an end date on his return. When his lungs are burning he pushes his feet against the rocks below him and breaks the surface, then heads back to the cabin.

He enters through the mudroom, barefoot and only slightly dripping, and takes a minute to grab a soda before he heads to the guest room shower. The front of the fridge looks like it belongs in a suburban home instead of a summer cabin, covered in memos, recipe clippings, and photos, all held up with a hodgepodge of souvenir magnets. There’s some great vintage photos of Bob and Alicia with epic 80’s hair alongside photos of kids Kent doesn’t know. Close to the freezer handle is a faded polaroid of toddler Jack being tugged across the ice by Wayne Gretzky; Kent fights the urge to genuflect.

It doesn’t take long for him to shower and throw on the first clothes he grabs out of his bag; shorts and a shirt that he’s pretty sure belongs to Jack. Their laundry gets so mixed up that it’s kind of pointless trying to figure it out, though if Jack packs on much more muscle, it will definitely be easier to tell clothes apart. 

He’s finishing up an apple with peanut butter, sitting at the kitchen island and trying to decide if he wants to wake up Jack from his nap or take one himself, when Bob comes in for some water. “Hey, kiddo. We need charcoal for tonight. Want to ride into town with me?”

“Sure.” Kent is more relaxed around Bob now, having mentally moved him closer to “Jack’s dorky father” than “living hockey legend” based solely on the volume of terrible jokes he can fit into a single conversation. 

They take the dinged up Jeep, and Kent swears some of his fillings shake loose as Bob navigates the gravel road. “So, Kent. How’s being alternate going so far.”

“Hard to say, Mr. -- uh, Bob. We’ve only be back for a couple weeks. I mean, Jack and I are hitting it hard. We’ve basically turned the basement into a hockey war room. I think if Jack could give up sleeping to work on plays he would.”

“Hmm, I hear he got into a little disagreement with the coaches.”

“Oh. Uh, I guess you could call it that.”

“You know,” Bob pulls into the parking lot of the local hardware store, “being an alternate, this is where you can lean in a little. Talk to him, help him relax a little but make sure he doesn’t lose focus.” 

Kent thinks back on Jack’s face as he talked to the coaches, as he shoved him out of the way to get back to the ice. His mouth feels a little dry. “Yeah, sure.”

“That’s good. Now, c’mon. We need charcoal and some cedar chips.”

By the time they get back to the house, Jack is awake and helping Alicia clean vegetables. They sit on the porch and drink beers while everything cooks on the grill, then eat the best fish Kent has tasted in his life. 

Its deliciousness in no way compensates for the horror that is fishing, though.

After dinner, Jack and Bob disappear, so Kent plays gin rummy with Alicia and the neighbors. She blatantly cheats and charms her way out of it when she gets caught, ending up with a huge pile of pennies and flushed cheeks from the sangria she’d been sipping. Kent used to think Jack favored Bob, but in the light of the citronella candles, he can see him in Alicia’s face.

Jack and Bob are still gone when they get back to the house, so Kent showers off the bug spray and sunscreen and climbs into bed. It’s late and he’s tired, and the sounds of insects chirping outside are soothing him to sleep quickly.

He’s just drifting off when Jack comes in and climbs in next to him, fully clothed. Kent shifts to make room for him; it’s not till he stills that he can feel Jack shaking.

“Wha--”

“I can’t -- I just need,” he trails off. 

Kent grabs his hand. “Hey, it’s gonna be okay.”

“You don’t know that.”

There’s no argument against that that doesn’t ring hollow, so Kent doesn’t answer.

When he wakes up, Jack’s hand is still in his. 

Jack’s quiet most of the way back, so Kent reads and tries not to worry about what the next day at the rink could bring. It’s baseless; Jack is steady, if a little subdued. 

The weirdest thing is that on their off day, Jack takes a chartered flight to Montreal in the morning, coming back late at night. He makes enough noise to wake up Kent, who squints into the room, the faint light from the bathroom just enough to see that Jack’s on the couch.

“Hey,” Kent says, “it’s like one or something. You going to sleep?”

Jack clears his throat. “Yeah, soon.”

When Kent wakes up in the morning, Jack is slumped over on the couch, and complains about having a crick in his neck till mid-morning. 

He’s weird over the next week or so, a little more snappy than usual, a little more quiet, but Kent’s a bit on edge too. This is the season where they prove themselves to the powers that be as future NHL stars, and it’s stressful. 

Also, it’s not like either of them are approaching goalie levels of weird, so it’s probably fine. 

* * * *

There’s a bite to the air that promises fall is close, but they still have the windows down in the car. It’s almost 5am, they’re wired on adrenaline and exhaustion, and Kent can’t stop giggling. “Did you see Natty’s face?” 

“I got it on film.” Jack idles before rolling into the driveway. “You gotta shut up, you’re gonna wake everybody up.”

“Jack, it was soooo funny. They were so pissed, man.” Kent grabs two of the duffles from the back of Jack’s car, lighter now without the flour, water balloons, and canisters of whipped cream. Jack grabs the other one, and they make their way inside as quietly as possible, dumping everything by the laundry room. Kent shoves Jack out of the way and grabs first shower, then burrows under the covers. Jack’s cracked the bathroom door to let steam out, and the light is hitting Kent’s face, too strong even with his eyes shut. “Shut the door, asshole,” Kent grumbles.

“Almost done.” Kent opens one eye, and just catches Jack chugging a glass of water.

“Jack, c’mon.” Jack shuts off the light and climbs into bed, and Kent starts giggling all over again. 

“Go to sleep, Kent.”

Kent focuses on breathing and slowly quiets, tiredness hitting him hard, but Jack won’t stop shifting, rustling the sheets. “What,” Kent says, turning to glare at him, “is your problem?’

“Do you think the boys had fun tonight?”

“Yes. It was a great initiation.”

“Do you think it was good for the team, though? When we started, I wasn’t sure--”

“Uuuuugh, I am not doing a play by play of initiation at 5:30 in the morning. This isn’t a slumber party. Go the fuck to sleep.”

“...can we do it over breakfast?”

“...fine.”

“You’re the best alternate.”

“Shut the fuck up and go to sleep, asshole.”

“Captain asshole.”

“I hate you.”

* * * *

The season starts with a win.

Then another.

And another.

The team is beyond solid, and Kent feels like he’s growing into his role as an alternate captain. He tries to watch out for the boys who are new to the league or new to town, to spend a little extra time with them, to be a little closer during practice drills. His and Jack’s pizza nights morph into full fledged team hangouts, and it feels right.

Except for that one time when there was almost a brawl over the validity of Hawaiian pizza. 

Kent stands by his ruling that it is delicious and everyone can shut up and is still a little sulky that Jack pulled rank and overruled him. 

So, yeah, hockey is going awesome.

School is not.

He’s taking a French literature class that he isn’t really quite fluent enough for, which is demoralizing, and a math class he signed up for just because it has minimal reading and matches Jack’s schedule. He needs the ride to campus and then afternoon practice. 

They spend their two late mornings each week in the campus library. Kent tries and mostly fails to keep up with his lit reading.

While he studies math and Jack reviews for his European history seminar, Kent notices that his notes are more doodles of plays than anything else and sighs in frustration. If he were doing this in English, it would be easy. But the Q was the best choice for him, and his uneasy truce with the French language stands.

Now that he’s taking classes again, he thinks of Marc now and then, remembers their hours of studying together, and the easy way he used to correct Kent’s arguments and help him find better support. The under the table footsie was also awesome.

Kent thinks about asking Jack for help again. He’s never mentioned an interest in literature, but surely he’s read some of what would be in a 101 class. Kent psyches himself up that it will be fun, working together instead of just at the same library table. 

He looks for him one afternoon, not finding him in the basement or the kitchen or family room, and finally hears a faint voice coming from Tim’s den. He heads upstairs but stops short of knocking on the closed door. He can hear everything anyway.

_“No, papa, I told you that’s the coach’s decision, not mine -- well, it is simple for you to say it to me, but I am the one who has to -- no, this is my team, not yours, or do you forget? I make the decisions, not you.”_

Kent walks away slowly, careful not to let the floorboards creak.

He’ll figure it out himself.

* * * *

It’s Saturday night and there’s a party. Kent’s sitting on a couch and someone is petting his hair. When they start using nails to comb over his scalp, he lets his head tip back and closes his eyes. 

“Parse.” He opens his eyes. It’s Jack, which is awesome because Jack is like, the best. Kent says as much, and Jack groans. “You’re wasted.”

Kent nods his agreement as someone hands him another Malibu and pineapple, heavy on the Malibu, and Jack wanders away.

He’s at the bottom of his drink when it registers that Jack is still gone. Kent needs to talk to him. He’s not sure about what, but he needs Jack, so he brushes away the hands of the girl next to him, who at some point shifted from playing with his hair to rubbing his back. 

“Have you seen Jack?” he asks her, and her friend sitting on the other side of her leans over to whispers something into her ear. They both giggle and Monica, that’s her name, or something close to that, smiles at him. “Yeah, I think I saw him in the basement. I’ll show you where it is.”

That’s a relief. She pulls Kent up and leads him by the hand down a hall to the basement stairs. Kent figures by the time she helps him find Jack, he’ll remember what it is he needs to tell him.

The basement is haphazardly furnished, full of old couches and chairs, mostly occupied with teenagers. “Here,” she says, stopping in front of a loveseat. “Sit here.” Kent does, and as he’s looking around, she sits on his lap, takes his face in her hands, and kisses him. 

She tastes like Malibu. 

Kent fucking loves Malibu. 

He forgot how soft girls’ lips are. No one’s kissed him since the banquet last year, and he likes kissing. He hasn’t kissed a girl since he moved up here, but it reminds him of his sophomore year girlfriend, who was really smart and funny, and who Kent always felt kind of bad about dating.

He’s starting to feel kind of bad now, and it’s maybe that Monica is trying to get him to feel her up, and he’s just, like, so not into it.

But there’s something else.

There’s something Kent is forgetting.

He remembers. He was looking for Jack. 

Monica is definitely not Jack.

“You’re not Jack,” he says, pulling back.

She giggles. “Of course not, silly,” and leans in again, but Kent turns his head. “I want Jack, not you.” He pushes away, slipping further along the sofa, knocking her off his lap as gently as he can.

“Oh my god.” She straightens her skirt and sits upright. “Your fucking boyfriend or whatever left like half an hour ago.” Kent freezes. “Goddamn hockey bros, for fucks sake, you can’t even go twenty minutes without your team,” and Kent can breathe again.

“Sorry,” he says. “Just want to make sure he’s okay.”

She’s already halfway to the stairs. He waits a minute or two, then heads up to find his jacket and book it out of there.

The night air helps clear Kent’s head, and by the time he gets back home he’s just slightly buzzed.

Jack’s sitting up in bed, reading. “Hey man,” Kent says, grabbing his pajamas. “Why’d you ditch?”

Jack puts his finger down on the page and looks up at Kent. “Wasn’t feeling it.”

“Left me to the wolves, bro. Harsh.”

“You seemed fine when I left.”

“I was till some girl lured me to the basement and shoved her tongue down my throat.”

Jack laughs, and keeps laughing, even when Kent flings himself on top of him and tries to put him in a headlock. He’s still laughing when they end up on the floor, dragging covers with them, Kent hopelessly pinned by Jack’s bigger body. “I give, I give,” he says, tapping the floor.

Jack smirks at him. “You always do.”

* * * *

Jack keeps ditching parties early without telling Kent. The fourth time it happens, Kent gets mad. No one who offered him a ride home was sober enough for him to take it, and the three mile walk home left him frozen and furious. When Kent makes it to the Olsen’s, he’s missed curfew, which means he has to reckon with Jan the next morning.

“The fuck, man?” Kent says as he stomps into their room, dusting snow off his shoulders. “You can’t keep doing this to me.”

“What?” Jack props himself upright from where he’d dozed off, book still open beside him. “Hey, you’re back late.”

“Fucking thanks to you.” A hot shower, Kent thinks. A hot shower will warm him up and probably make him feel less like punching Jack. He heads into the bathroom to start the water but pauses at the door. The counter is a mess; the contents of Jack’s toiletries case spread out. “Aww, c’mon man.” He starts chucking tubes of who know what into the case when he notices a trio of pill bottles next to Jack’s toothbrush. 

“Wait, I’ll clean up.” Jack’s voice comes in from the other room. “I’ll clean up, and I’ll get the hot water going, ok?”

“Okay.” Kent retreats to the couch as Jack tidies the bathroom. “Hey, Jack?”

“Going as fast as I can here.”

“You’d tell me if you weren’t okay, right?”

Jack pops his head out of the door and looks at Kent. “What?”

Kent worries at his shirtsleeve. _I’ve stolen your toothpaste a million times, and I’ve never had to move three bottles of pills to do it, are you sick, are you hurt, what is wrong and why won’t you tell me,_ he thinks. “You keep leaving parties early.”

Jack disappears into the bathroom again, but Kent can hear him over the sound of the shower water. “Sorry. Sometimes there’s -- uh, it’s a lot of people, you know?”

“Not really?” Kent has now picked a small hole in his cuff. 

“I’m not so much into parties these days, but you always look like you’re having fun and I don’t want to bother you when I leave--”

“I’d rather be with you.” It slips out before Kent can stop it.

“Oh.” Jack comes back out, sits beside Kent. “Okay. Then, I’ll tell you when I’m leaving, yeah?”

“I’ll leave then, too, okay?” 

Jack reaches over and ruffles Kent’s hair, claps him on the shoulder. His hand lingers. “Water should be hot now.” Jack’s hair is a mess from having fallen asleep earlier, and his t-shirt is on inside out. _No one else sees you like I do,_ Kent thinks.

“Parse? Shower?”

“Yeah. Yes. You going to bed for real now?” 

“I’ll wait up for you.” 

By the time Kent is done, Jack’s sound asleep. He pauses at the bathroom threshold, looking at Jack’s monogrammed kit on the counter. The zipper isn’t completely closed. It would be so easy to take a look, to ease his mind.

Kent looks at himself in the mirror. “No,” he whispers, and he heads to bed.

* * * *

Rimouski keeps winning and keeps winning, and October and November pass in a blur of hockey and essays and riding shotgun in Jack’s car to practice, to games, to wherever. They sit together on the bus, they’re roomies on the road, they find each other between classes to study together.

For Kent’s money, Hanson and Bammer have a way weirder friendship than he and Jack do, but they’re not standing out as the team leaders, and neither of them hit a growth spurt like Jack, getting even taller and broader seemingly overnight. Even in his track pants and sweatshirts, people notice Jack when he walks into a room, and then they notice Kent, who’s always besides him. He hears things, vaguely, speculation and rumor, nothing close to the truth, which is simple: Jack is his boy, and he's Jack’s.

At least until the draft. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Scene at party: Kent is drunk and a girl is hitting on him. They end up kissing; Kent is not upset by this, but not really into it either. She tries to lead him to touching her more, and he pulls back. 
> 
> Thank you to summerfrost and selfsong for the once over! 
> 
> An aside: I forgot how stressful NHL playoffs are, and it is only the first round. Oof, and go Bolts, Caps, Preds, and possibly the Leafs, depending on who they are playing.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All Kent wants for Christmas is to win the World Junior Championship.

“Did no one in the US ever tell you that you cannot actually consume your mouth guard?”

Kent spits the offending piece of rubber into his glove and turns to glare at Jack.

“I’m just saying.” Jack’s eyes are on the ice, where a mess of Oceanic and Rempart players have almost gotten untangled enough so that the officials have space to reset the goal. “It’s not actually a piece of UGHHH the what the fuck, man?”

Kent retracts his spit-damp finger from Jack’s ear and grins, smugly, before popping his guard back in. 

“I cannot believe you just gave me a wet willy,” Jack grumbles as he hoists himself over the boards. 

“Worth it,” Kent mumbles as he follows him. He knows retaliation will be swift.

He doesn’t care.

He’s been on guard since early November, heart racing at games not only from long shifts, focus drifting from the ice to the pockets of men in suits in the bleachers, with their clipboards and cameras. 

Scouts.

They’ve been in and out of the crowds since October, their numbers and the patterns of their ties varying from game to game and town to town. They’ve been a larger mass in the past few weeks, scoping out their picks for World Juniors, a precursor to the waves that will come as the draft gets closer and closer.

They were there last year, a faint noise in the background of the crowd. But now, Kent’s awareness of them bleeds into his peripheral vision and settles under his skin. It feels like pre-game jitters gone sour, nerves he can’t shake off by setting his blade to the ice and playing.

At least he’s not alone. All the boys have been feeling it, and one coping mechanism is reigning supreme. Since mid-November, Kent has learned to check his stall carefully before and after each game, to never leave any toiletries out in the open, and to walk down the halls with as much care and foreboding as if he were a blonde cheerleader heading up the stairs of an old house in a horror movie. 

He loves his boys and their gross, weird, obnoxious and often smelly expressions of brotherhood, especially as the bro love tiptoes around the edges of what everyone knows but no one is saying -- the scouts watch everyone, but their eyes follow Jack and Kent the most.

Jack, since preseason, has been on fire, untouchable; his selection to play for Canada is a foregone conclusion that he has lost no sleep over. 

Kent’s spot on the American roster is a thing he won’t let himself take as a given, not when there’s so much other talent spread across the midwest and up and down New England, talent working just as hard as he is, waking up early to train, staying late to perfect that one shot that wasn’t right, laying in bed at night rewatching plays behind eyes that just want rest. 

He’s not taking things for granted, but he still wouldn’t say he doesn’t like his chances. He’s Kent Motherfucking Parson, alternate captain of the Rimouski Oceanic and regular performer of absolutely sick dangles. 

Rempart’s giving it their all and the score is infuriatingly tied through the third period. He gets sent out with two minutes left and later he swears time slowed down just like in movies when he sails past a D-man and makes a beautiful, perfect, unassisted goal on a breakaway, tipping Rimouski into the lead. He has just enough time to think, _Yes, clinched it, I’m going to Ottawa_ before a shouting heap of hockey players pile on him and knock that thought clean out of his head. 

And if the pile of sweaty teammates didn’t do enough to bring him back down to earth, the massive headache he has the next morning does the trick. There had been a celebration party after that half of the Rempart boys had shown up at, and they’d been way more fun and chill than expected. He and Jack had left fairly early in, but Kent had done three keg stands and almost puked in Jack’s car, so maybe leaving early had been for the best. Kent thinks there’s nothing that could truly try his and Jack’s friendship, but puking up beer in Jack’s beloved car is a test he’s not willing to submit himself to.

He feels gross, but it’s not something that a shower and a giant breakfast won’t set to rights. He rolls over and ends up smacking Jack in the face. He dodges Jack’s half-asleep retaliation slap, his head throbbing at the sudden movement. 

Kent pokes at Jack with his toes. “Hey, Jack. Jaaaaack. Jack. C’mon, wake up.”

Jack opens his eyes and squints at Kent, then rolls over, dragging all the covers with him.

Kent’s missed this. Jack’s spent way more nights crashed out on the couch or in his own bed than sharing Kent’s like they did last year, and Kent hadn’t realized how much the soft bulk of Jack snoring next to him had kept his homesickness at bay. Whatever his fucked up weird feelings for Jack are, he’s as much home for Kent as anyone else is.

Having thought that incredibly gay and lame thought, Kent rolls his eyes at himself and, hangover be damned, sits up and flops across Jack. 

Jack’s got him half shoved off the bed before he knows it, but he hangs on, his legs wrapped around Jack’s torso. “Fucking koala,” Jack mutters. 

“I’m a python.” Kent twists, and Jack’s hold on him slips. 

“You’re a loon.” Kent’s almost free when the default ringtone that Jack has never bothered to change starts up, only partially muffled by a pillow. Jack drops him, sides out his phone, and blanches. 

“I forgot to call my dad last night. About the scouts. Fuck.” He’s out of the bed fast, tugging on his jeans, phone pressed between his ear and shoulder. Kent goes to splash some water on his face, then heads upstairs to give Jack some privacy. It’s a good half an hour before he joins Kent at the kitchen table for breakfast, and he’s so stonily silent that Maddie moves to sit by Kent.

* * * *

Kent’s deep into his prep routine, fighting with the shin guard strap that never wants to hook properly, so it takes Mosh clearing his throat three times before he looks up and sees most of the team surrounding him, shit-eating grins on their faces. 

Mosh is holding a piece of paper in his hands. “In my hand I hold the provisional roster for Team America -- “ Kent lunges, but Mosh is ready, and darts out of his way, “ -- and I feel that it might be something you’d be interested in,” he says as he jumps from bench to bench, Kent always just a second too late. “ -- aww, Parser, it’s like you’re not even tryinOOF.”

Jack’s take down is so quick that Mosh, for once in his life, is speechless as Jack straightens up to stand over him, one foot on his chest. “Sorry, pal, didn’t see you there.” He leans over and pats Mosh on the head before grabbing the paper and handing it to Kent.

With shaking hands, Kent uncrumples it and reads the list of names. He looks up at Jack. “Oh mama, don’t you cry --,” the rest of the song is lost as the boys pile on Kent, but Jack got to him first, and it’s his “so fucking proud, Kenny,” hot against his ear that Kent carries with him into practice. 

Three days later, Team Canada announces. Jack, Digsy, and Bammer will represent The Great White North. At the party that night, Jack doesn’t leave early; he’s as gloriously drunk as Kent is when they leave, car keys safe in Kent’s back pocket. 

They spend the 15 minute walk home hissing “act sober” to each other and then giggling hysterically. 

Jack walks down to the basement shedding his winter layers, and flops on the bed still wearing his jeans. “Zimms,” Kent slurs. “You gotta, uhhh, brush your teeth. You’re a, a fuckin’ role model. Think of the kids.”

“Shut up.”

Kent’s standing next to the bed, fighting a losing battle with his thermal leggings. “Thas not nice. Shouldn’t tell people to shut up.” 

“You’re not people. You’re Kenny.” 

“Haha, your Kenny.” He wins the battle with his thermal leggings and gets down to his boxers and t shirt, then gracelessly climbs in next to Jack, who yelps when Kent presses his cold fingers into his ribs. 

“I don’t wanna go to Ottawa.” 

Jack smacks his fingers away. ”Your fingers won’t be any colder in Ottawa. Go to sleep.”

“Last year World Juniors was in Europe. I’m already in Canada. I don’t -- we should go to Paris! Take me to Paris?”

“I will take you to Paris if you shut up.”

“Pinky swear?”

Jack doesn’t answer, and Kent watches him sleep for maybe a minute before his own eyes sink shut. 

They wake up hungover and sweaty, with Jan yelling down the stairs that if they don’t get their asses to breakfast now, there will be none. When they appear 5 minutes later, unshowered and squinting in the morning sun, she puts the skillet of scrambled eggs on the table hard enough that Kent winces. “Jan, could you not?”

“Eat your eggs and suffer.”

They do.

* * * *

“I’m just saying, it’s blatant favoritism and that is not cool for a captain, brah.” Bammer is half way through his breakfast burrito, talking with his mouth full, bitter that Kent wouldn’t switch out of the front seat at their breakfast pit stop. 

The car is totally going to smell like farts in about an hour. Kent eyes the a/c vent, praying it will blast hard enough to save his nose. 

Jack sips his orange juice and glances in the rear view mirror. “You know Parse has permanent shotgun.”

Bammer scoffs. “That’s bullshit. The rules of shotgun—.” 

“Kent,” Jack says, cutting Bammer off. “Please smack everyone sitting in the back seat.”

“My pleasure.” He reaches around and whacks Bammer on the shin. 

Digsy manages to tuck himself agains the door, out of reach, complaining, “What did I do?”

“One, you failed to control your boy. Two, you failed to backup your captain. Now scoot over and let Kent dole out your punishment.” Jack’s got the barest hint of a smile going. Kent loves it when he’s like this, playful and a little bit of a shit. 

“This is not the Christmas spirit,” Bammer mutters, rubbing his leg.

Disgy’s yelp when Kent managers to finally get him is deeply satisfying. 

* * * *

They get completely lost once they arrive in Ottawa, but thanks to Jack’s insistence on a crack-of-dawn departure, there’s still plenty of time, and it’s kind of fun, to see the Christmas decorations and store windows. Kent gets some shitty photos out his window before the boys complain about the cold air coming in, and some better ones when they stop for ice cream at an old-fashioned looking store. 

The best shots are of Jack fighting off Bammer’s efforts to try his single scoop of butter pecan, and surprisingly, one Jack takes of Kent, chocolate malted in hand, looking warily at Digsy as he flirts with the waitress.

They make it to the hotel soon after. Kent hugs his boys and shoulders his bag as they head their separate ways in the lobby. He’s the first to get to his room and spends an hour watching tv and double checking his schedules and paperwork before there’s a knock on the door. He’s tempted to rub his eyes when he looks through the peephole, his disbelief stopping him long enough that there’s a second, firmer knock.

When he opens the door, his father is standing there, decked out in a Team USA sweatshirt, grinning at him. “Dad? Oh my god, I thought you weren’t getting here till -- you’re gonna miss Christmas!”

“Aww kiddo, you actually believed that we’d leave you all alone on Christmas Day?” He steps into the room and wraps Kent into a hug. “Surprise!” he says, straight into Kent’s ear before stepping back and walking around him, squeezing his arm. “You've grown since summer. The girls must be crazy about you.”

Kent sucks air in through his teeth, then smiles. “Yeah. They sure are.” 

His dad claps him on the back. “You got time to get a late lunch with your old man?”

There’s not quite enough time to get to a restaurant and back, so they end up in the hotel bar, nursing sodas and catching up on minor family dramas and news from home that phone calls hadn’t covered. 

“Your mom will be up on the 27th. She wanted to come on the 26th to catch your first game --”

“Driving after a 12-hour shift just to watch us crush Germany? I don’t think so. What about Kristen?” Kent can see the waiter approaching with his double burger and fries. He’s starving.

“Coming up with your mother, obviously.”

His dad carries the conversation while Kent eats, and soon enough his plate is clear and he’s zoning out a little, the familiar cadence of his dad’s voice washing over him. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Jack cross through the lobby, trailing a few guys in Canadian red. It snaps him back to reality. “I got to go soon, Dad. We have a meeting. Give me your planner, and I’ll put in my schedule for the next few days.”

His dad chuckles. “All hockey all the time. Some things never change.” He pays the bill and is about to leave when Kent clears his throat. 

“Hey dad? This means a lot. I really,” he stops and takes a deep breath to stave off the tears he can feel welling up. “I really missed you. And mom. A lot. And I guess I missed Kristen. Maybe. Don’t let her know her I said that and please tell me you’re going to make her -- “

“ -- wear the hat? Of course. They’re all packed, along with the sweatshirts. Wouldn’t be a Parson family hockey outing without ‘em.” His dad is grinning at him from across the table, and Kent gives him a quick hug before heading back to his room. 

His roommate, Adam Wilson, one of the most deadly D-men in Minnesota, has arrived and is reading on the second bed. “Parson,” he says, saluting Kent. “Long time, no see. Let's win some motherfucking hockey.”

“Fuck yes.” Kent crosses the room for a fist bump.

Evening practice leaves Kent buzzing with adrenaline. He walks back from the rink with a group of a half dozen guys, whooping and horsing around and making pedestrians cross to the other side of the street. They turn the corner back to the hotel and bump into Team Canada, literally. Andre Lukas has his arm thrown around Jack’s shoulder, and Jack is laughing. “Boys,” Lukas says, jostling Jack. “Enjoying the evening?”

“Gentlemen,” Wilson counters. “Not as much as we’ll enjoy kicking your ass in a few days.”

“Ouch, Wilson. I come at you with genuine Canadian hospitality and that’s how you’re going to throw down?” He glances at Kent and slaps Jack on the back, leading him past the Americans. “S’fine. We got our secret weapon right here. Gonna get Zimmermann hammered and find out all your dirty little secrets, Parson.”

Kent doesn’t have his camera on him, but the image of Jack looking back at him over his shoulder, his eyes bright and teeth bared, sears itself into his mind. 

Jack looks Kent dead in the eye. “You don’t need me to tell you Parse’s secrets. He’s an open book.”

He turns and high fives Lukas, then walks away.

* * * *

The Zimmermanns host an epic Christmas dinner at a nearby restaurant, a riot of teenage boys gleefully demolishing the buffet. Jack and Kent twitch through dinner at the head table with their parents and coaches, escaping before dessert to hang out with their teams, who have claimed a holiday armistice and are spread across the room in clumps, shoving as much cake and pie into their mouths as possible. 

Kent looks up at one point, Jack slumped warm against his side, done in by too much roast beef, and sees his father talking to Bob and Alicia, animated the way he only gets after a few drinks. It feels so right, having both sides of his life here, his family and his team, and, somewhere between the two, Jack.

* * * *

When Kent takes the ice for warmups against Germany, his Dad and Jack are pressed up against the glass, yelling, with Digsy and Bammer a few rows back, an American flag draped across them and stars and stripes painted on their cheeks. The boys vanish part way through to get ready for their own game, but it’s in the bag by then. Team USA wraps up 8-2, and on the way off the ice Kent sees his dad in the stands, pointing at the ice and mouthing “ninety” to a man standing next to him.

It’s the same for the next couple days, stands full of families and hockey players, a cacophony of languages ringing through the stadium and the hotels and the streets near the arena. Kent revels in playing for his country, in seeing his family losing their shit in the stands, awful “PARSON #1” emblazoned ball caps and sweatshirts a mortifying encouragement he wouldn’t change for the world. 

Robbie and his family are watching online, and when Kent knows the camera is on him he winks twice, their shared secret signal. 

Team USA wins and wins, and it’s strange, not having Jack by his side on the bench, or not looking for him on the ice. This strangeness sits next to a different feeling; it’s not that Kent couldn’t name it, but more that he won’t, something tied to the absence in the commentary and on the scoreboard of Jack’s name. 

He doesn’t have time to think about it too much, really. 

* * * *

“Remember last New Year’s Eve?” Kent asks as he crouches to take the faceoff.

Across from him, Jack drops his stick down, ready. “Haha, it was basically the same as this, yeah?” 

“More or less.”

Twenty-thousand people in the stands scream as the ref drops the puck.

* * * *

Three brutal periods later, Jack pulls Kent in for a hug during the handshake line. “Hey,” he says, his helmet thunking against Kent’s, “you’ll get a second chance to try and kick my ass in the finals, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Kent says.

* * * *

It’s Kristen who finds him, tucked away in an empty, dark conference room. She sits on the floor next to him and he lets her draw him close, sliding down till his head is on her thigh and she’s petting his hair. “Still half an hour till midnight. Some of the boys are looking for you. There’s a party.”

“There’s always a party.” Kent’s sore and tired and wants to go home but can’t decide if that means Buffalo or Rimouski. 

“You know that you’re not out of it yet, right? You’ll be in the quarterfinals --”

“I goddamn know how a hockey tournament works,” Kent bites off, the words harsh.

Kristen’s hand stills. “Try again.”

His brain won’t let him. He played his best friend in the game that had mattered more than any game in his entire life, and he lost. He lost in front of his entire family, in front of Jack, in front of his adopted country and his country of birth, and then he had to sit through what was meant to be a celebratory dinner after, working through his food and putting on a “I’m just glad to be here” and “we’ll get them next time” face like he didn’t want to just scream and not stop for the next, oh, week. Or maybe year. Or lifetime. 

He doesn’t want to be placated. He wants to have the game back and play through all the missed passes and penalties and stupid bullshit calls that ruined _everything_ , and Kristen will never, ever get that.

He can feel the words forming, a last chance to close his mouth and let his sister love him, but that’s a chance he’s way past taking.

“What the fuck do you know about it? You think your cheerleading meets feel like this? You ever have thousands of people cheering cause you fucking lost? Shut up, Kristen.” He’s definitely going to cry. He wants to shove her away, to let out the rest of what’s dancing across his tongue, cruel and vicious, but he’s so goddamn _tired_ , and her hideous family sweatshirt smells like the detergent his mom’s used for years and years, so instead he turns his head into her soft stomach and shudders.

“Hey, asshole.” Kent was expecting her voice to be soft, to gentle him through this. 

It’s not. 

“You have about two seconds to apologize.”

He snorts. “You have about two seconds to go fuck yourself.”

“Hey,” she tugs on his ear, sharp, and it pulls his head back enough for him to see her face. “Apologize. Now. Or I will leave.”

Kent’s willing his tongue to work, to unleash the words that are burning in his heart and up his throat, but instead he crumbles, gasping sobs escaping his mouth that shake his whole body. 

Kristen lets him cry, and when he’s winding down, breathing heavy and exhausted, she says it again. “Apologize.”

“I’m so sorry, please don’t be mad at me, I’m sorry and you gotta believe me and just — don’t leave,” he babbles. 

“I’m still mad at you,” Kristen says, her voice steady, “but I love you, ok? We’re gonna just sit here for a while. Can I at least tell Jack you’re here?”

A long moment passes before Kent answers.

“No.”

They sit in the dark and listen to the muffled cheers and music of a new year arriving. When it quiets down, Kristen kisses Kent’s forehead. “C’mon, let's go to sleep. You’ll feel better in the morning.”

He doubts it, but lets her pull him up and walk him to his room. By the time he gets there, he can only focus on the shame rising through him. He hugs Kristen for a long time, saying sorry over and over into her hair.

When he gets in the room he spends a moment staring at himself in the mirror. He looks wrecked and hopes that Wilson will be quiet whenever he comes back because he is definitely not fit for any kind of human interaction. 

Before he turns off the light, though, he picks up the heavy receiver of the hotel phone and dials. Four rings later, Jack picks up, his voice groggy. “Hello?”

“Happy New Year, Zimms.” Kent gently sets the receiver down and turns off the light. 

* * * * 

Fifth. Fucking. Place.

They lost to goddamn Slovakia, and just when Kent had thought they could stay in the contest when they went to OT against the Czech Republic and he could almost taste the victory, a puck sailed past their defense and into the net, and that was that.

Fifth place. 

Fifth.

Fucking.

Place.

And then, to add insult on top of injury, he has to paste on a smile and do interviews. 

It hurts. It hurts that he couldn’t do it without Jack, and now Jack still has a shot to do it without him.

Kent hugs his family and promises he’ll be up in time to have breakfast with them before they head back to Buffalo the next day, that he just wants to lick his wounds and get some sleep.

He fully intends to do just that, until Wilson literally sits on him until he agrees to make a cameo at a multi-country “we suck” party of the boys who’ve also been eliminated. He could probably use a beer or two to help him get to sleep, anyway.

* * * *

It’s sometime after 2 am. Kent lost track of how many shots and beers he’s had, but what he does know is that he’s wasted, the handicap stall he’s locked in smells like flowers, and the guy from team Finland down on his knees in front of him is making Kent’s whole body shake.

The only thing cutting through the fog of alcohol and sex is that this is such a stupid, stupid decision and that feeling this good after such a shit night means that he does not care.

After, alone in the elevator, he hits the button for the floor 7 stories above his room. He stands in front Jack’s door, willing himself to knock.

When he finally does, it takes a while for Jack to open the door. Jack opens and squints at Kent. “Aren’t you supposed to be at a party?” He's fully dressed and smells like tequila.

Kent wrinkles his nose and pushes past Jack. “Guess _you_ were. Is your roommate --” The question dies on his lips as he takes in the king sized bed and the single suitcase on the luggage rack. “You have a single.”

“Uh, yeah.” Jack looks sheepish as he says it.

Kent sits down on the edge of the bed. “I can’t believe you. Of course, you get a fucking single.”

“Why are you here, Parse?” Jack is leaning on the dresser, arms crossed and expression unreadable.

“I lost.”

“I know. I was there.” 

“No you weren’t.” Kent lays back and throws his arm across his eyes. “I hate playing without you. After the draft --”

“Don’t,” Jack says, so soft Kent almost misses it. “I just -- I need to get through the next two games.”

Kent opens his eyes as Jack moves to sit cross-legged next to him. He's watching Kent. 

“My parents and Kristen are leaving tomorrow.” The alcohol is starting to wear off, and Kent’s sleepy. “I’m going with them.”

Jack’s silent for a long minute. “I can pay for your flight if you want to stay.” 

The thought of staying for two more days, watching teams that aren’t his fight for a trophy he won’t raise is awful.

But so is the thought of leaving. 

“You’ll miss some really good parties,” Jack offers. “You love parties. Don’t you want to be here?” 

It’s frustrating that Kent’s mind won’t let him think, that all he can do is say, “I don’t know what I want.” 

“Then stay,” Jack says, like it’s easy, and maybe it is. Kent feels the duvet being tugged out from under him and lifts his hips and legs so that Jack can cover him up. He falls asleep before Jack finishes turning out the lights.

He’s forty minutes late for breakfast in the morning, and between that and telling his mother that he’s not riding back with them, Kent is severely in the doghouse. Not even Jack stopping by the table to introduce everyone to his Uncle Wayne helps, and by the time three-quarters of the Parsons depart, Kent’s feeling nothing but relief.

He watches as Canada barely makes it past Russia, and then cleans up against Sweden. Jack yells as he lifts the cup over his head, skating it around the rink. 

Kent could swear they make eye contact for a split second, but Jack’s gone too fast to be sure, a bolt of red and white and a glint of gold above him, and Kent behind, looking through glass as he skates away. 

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Houseguests, hockey, and other developments.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tags updated -- there's some nasty homophobic language in this during a game and poor choices about controlled substances. If this concerns you, message me on tumblr at agrossunderstatement and I can tell you where to skip parts or send you an edited document.
> 
> But other than that I PINKY PROMISE things go better for Kent than they have been.

Nathan Tremblay, hockey nickname Remmy, grew up in a fishing hamlet that is allegedly somewhere in northeast Quebec, has an accent so deep that Kent sometimes needs Jack to translate for him, is a year younger and 4 inches taller than Kent, and will be sleeping on the couch in the basement while his host siblings recover from the chickenpox.

“Man, how have you never had chickenpox?” Jack tosses Remmy a bag of chips. 

Remmy shrugs. “Only child in a village of 400 people.”

Kent plops himself half on the sofa, half on Jack, and wiggles until he mostly has his ass on the cushion. “I mean, I thought Rimouski was small…”

Remmy snorts and steals the bowl of popcorn that Jack’s holding. 

It’s fun having Remmy in the house, getting to know him a little outside the rink and parties. The first morning of his stay, Jack and Kent drag him off the couch while he bitches that practice doesn’t start for another two hours and then lights up when they get to the rink and realizes Jack has a key and they get the ice all to themselves.

Kent’s developed some sick trick shots, and while he’s not about to let a kid a year younger than him show him up, he’s got to admit that Remmy’s dekes are progressing and will be striking fear in the hearts of D-men across Quebec by next fall.

It’s a solid practice, helping to shake off the cobwebs after the short break after World Juniors. Kent had gone back to Buffalo and marinated in his own misery for a few days, spending hours under piles of blankets on the couch marathoning Gilmore Girls and feeling sorry for himself. He got bored with that right about the time he had to head back north, mercifully. 

He’s channeling his feelings into his hockey. There’s still half a season left, plus, hockey gods willing, playoffs.

Currently, though, he should probably worry less about hockey victory and more about whatever the fuck Remmy is doing in Jan’s blender. 

“Dude, how did you make a brown smoothie?” Kent watches Remmy pour the sludge into a glass and take a big gulp. “Oh my god, stop. We’re going to fix this,” Kent says as he starts to pull out milk and yogurt and fruit. 

“Huh,” Remmy says a few moments later when Kent pours him a glass flecked pink with raspberries and strawberries. He sips it hesitantly, then puts down the glass. “So, this is better.”

“No shit.” They split the drink and then hit up the cabinet for chips and salsa. 

By the end of the week, he’s also taught him two new ways to tie his skates, how to disable a smoke detector when the microwave betrays you, enough American slang to severely annoy Jack, and how to actually use lotion to make your skin softer instead of having elbows that could probably be used to strip paint of old furniture.

It’s not all triumph, though. All efforts at getting him to talk to girls were glorious failures, which isn’t a big surprise considering that when Maddy comes in the room he immediately turns red, stammers, and leaves. 

On the ice, he’s Kent’s shadow, mimicking his shots and asking for help on his stance and slap shot. They spend a good hour talking about what their power play is missing, Jack sullen in his role as occasional translator as Remmy interrupts him to hear from Kent. 

It’s like talking to an older version of Robbie, but in French and with minimally more life experience. 

It’s weird cause the first year boys usually seek Jack above all others for advice, but as the week goes on Jack softens, which Kent can’t figure out till he gets a shoulder thump in the locker room. 

“Way to earn that A,” Jack says, handing him the least gross flavor of energy bar in his bag. 

He walks away before Kent can find his voice and thank him. 

The team gets home late on a Thursday, spirits high after a big win, and Remmy calls the first shower. Kent flips through a book while Jack stretches. 

“So,” Jack says, bending side to side, “do you think he will want to know your opinion on how to best wash his balls, or what?”

If Kent looks at the book very carefully, maybe he won’t crack up.

Jack shifts to lunges. “Parse,” he says, roughening his accent, “should I do the left one first? Or the right? Maybe both together? Oh, that could be difficult. Can I get an assist?”

Kent’s lip twitches, and Jack continues. “And what about the taint?” 

“Stop it,” Kent hisses. “He’ll hear you.”

“Not over those old pipes.” Jack’s moves on to floor stretches, but manages to maintain his accent even folded in half. “Parseeeee, I have had impure thoughts about Madeleine, would you rather kill me yourself, or will seppuku do?”

That’s it, Kent loses it, and seconds later, so does Jack. As they wheeze, calming down and catching their breath, Kent manages, “Well if he’s gonna perv on my sister I’m def not helping him wash his balls,” and that sets them off again. 

When Remmy comes out of the shower, rubbing his hair with a towel, they’re still giggling. He sits down on the edge of a bed. “What’s so funny?”

“English joke. Sorry,” Jack says, getting up and grabbing his towel. 

Remmy leaves two days later, a better man for his stay, at least by Kent’s estimation. 

* * * *

It’s so cold in late-January that Jack and Kent have to spend serious time psyching themselves up to leave his car when they get to practice. It has heated seats; even the force of their combined discipline isn’t quite enough for them to leave the comfort of a toasty ass and sprint to the doors without a little complaining. 

As chilled as the air and the ice are, the team is on fire. Kent’s glad he didn’t sign up for classes this semester. The extra time he can dedicate to hockey has led to him and Jack’s freaky sixth sense no-look one-timer. The fourth time it happens, Kent knows that they’ll be able to pull it off when the scouts are in the stands, despite his nerves. 

His nerves, man. He can’t quiet them completely; Jack complains that he’s grinding his teeth loud enough to wake the dead at night, but it’s not like Kent is responsible for what he does when he’s asleep. He exercises as much as he can to try and blow off steam, but one day, after Coach deservedly chews him out for a sloppy pass that leads them to OT instead of a regulation win, Kent can’t stop breathing hard, even after his shower. 

He and Jack are the last ones in the locker room because leaders leave last. Jack crouches down in front of the bench Kent’s sitting on, and reaches forward to brush Kent’s damp hair back. They’re both letting their haircuts grow out in anticipation of stupid cuts and dye jobs before playoffs. “Hey,” Jack says, voice low and soft. “Let’s count breaths together, yeah?” 

They do, Kent’s hand on Jack’s chest so he can feel the slow rhythm of his breathing. When he’s good, he takes his hand away and drops his head. 

“Hey. It’s fine. Just sit here a second, ok?” Jack leaves to rustle in his bag. When he comes back, he holds out a water bottle, and, in the palm of his hand, a pill. “It’s Ativan. It’ll help.”

After Kent downs the pill and the bottle of water, Jack drives them home and gently shoves him into bed, still in his street clothes. Kent drifts off to sleep with his head against Jack’s chest, listening to his heartbeat.

* * * *

It’s just, like. You know.

Hockey bros are physical on and off the ice, piling into cars and vans, sitting on top of each other at restaurants, and constantly throwing an arm around whoever is closest as they talk.

But they don’t, as a rule, cuddle.

And that’s all Kent can really call what he and Jack do now, in the late evenings on the couch, fucking around with a video game or flipping endlessly through their mostly shitty tv show options. 

Jack likes to curl into himself, compact as he can get, and his head ends up on Kent’s shoulder more often than not, or Kent fits himself into the tight space on the edge of the sofa so that they can kind of wedge in together, both facing the television as they try to stay awake till Adult Swim comes on. 

It’s definitely not spooning. That’s not bros, ok?

* * * *

Oceanic’s assistant coach is leaving after this season, and it’s not something that super concerns Kent, who at worst will be on an AHL team somewhere and at best will be in the NHL, but the new coach is coming on now, a month before the end of the regular season, to make a better transition. 

He’s sharp and firm, but kind enough around the edges that Kent’s not surprised to find out he has six kids. He’s also Finnish and hearing him talk on the phone to his wife one afternoon before a game reminds Kent of his hook up at World Juniors, and suddenly he’s fighting back a boner. He excuses himself and hides in the bathroom till it goes away, joining warm-ups a few minutes late. 

“Must have been a hell of a shit, Parser,” Bammer says, sliding a puck to Kent. “Took forever.”

“Gross, man. Hey, keep your head up, you know --”

“Yeah, I hate these fuckers.” They’re playing St. Johns, and the Sea Dogs are fast and ruthless. Kent’s not looking forward to the bruises he’ll have tomorrow. 

It starts fast and the pace keeps up the whole first period. They go into the second tied at one each, and by the middle of the third, it’s still a one-point game. 

Then, with 3 minutes left, Kent flings the puck down the ice to Jack, who sends it top-shelf without even looking. Kent throws his hands in the air and rushes down to join the group, but before he can, someone crashes into him, and it’s wrong, it’s not a teammate’s celly, it’s hard and sharp, and he’s left sprawled on the ice. 

Number 22 looms over him and bends down, grabbing Kent’s sweater. “Oops, did the faggot fall down?” he spits, and Kent’s up fast, but Remmy is faster, coming out of nowhere and holding him back, hissing in his ear. “It’s not worth it, Parser. We can’t afford you being out of this game even for 3 minutes.” Kent surges forward, but Remmy doesn’t budge. “Later, okay? Cool the fuck off.” 

After the buzzer sounds, with Oceanic in the lead thanks to his assist and Jack’s goal, he makes it off the ice before seeing number 22 again and stays in the shower till the water runs cold. 

The locker room is half empty when he gets out, Jack nowhere to be seen. Jimbo sees Kent scanning the room. “He’s waiting for you in his car, Parser. Side lot, away from the busses, yeah?” Jimbo gives him a shoulder squeeze and a shake. “Take it easy, huh? Don’t worry about some asshole who can’t trash talk.”

Kent dresses as fast as he can, shoving a hat on his wet hair and not even bothering to tie his boot laces or zip his coat; he shoves everything into his gear bag and leaves, letting the door slam behind him.

He’s shivering by the time he walks the few meters to the car and stows his stuff. Jack’s silent when Kent slips into the front seat and turns the heaters to high. They make it to a red light before he opens his mouth. 

“The fuck, you could have put us on a PK with a one-point lead and three minutes left. You know better -- ”

Kent doesn’t even look at him, just opens the door and gets out. He can hear Jack curse and follow him, the dinging of the open door alarm sounding across the thin winter air, his boots crunching in the snow. 

Kent kicks at first when Jack grabs him, arms tight around his chest, but he’s tired, he’s so goddamn tired. 

He sags as Jack murmurs into his ear. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, okay? C’mon. You’ll get pneumonia. Come back to the car.”

Kent doesn’t move.

“Please? C’mon, seriously, you’ve got wet hair and you’re going to freeze.” Kent can’t really argue with that, so he nods, and together they shuffle back to the car. 

Jack drives them to McDonald’s, gets the biggest hot tea they have, then drives around the back and parks by the closed video store. He prods Kent into the backseat, following behind him. 

When Kent is wrapped up with Jack’s coat draped over his shoulders, drinking tea, his hands slowly warming up, Jack taps his fingers on the leather of the seat. “You want a pill?”

Kent considers it, then shakes his head. He focuses on breathing, and when he can fully exhale, he looks at Jack.

“Sorry.” Jack fiddles with a napkin, tearing it at the corners. Kent inhales deeply and holds it for five beats. 

Jack continues, “That was, uh, maybe not the thing you needed to hear?”

“You think?” The tea burns his tongue a little.

The car is finally warm enough that his breath doesn’t show, but he’s still cold. Jack scoots closer to him and pulls at the layers of coats to better wrap him up, then rubs his hands up and down Kent’s arms, which generates zero heat but is a sweet gesture. 

Kent lets out a shaky sigh. “That guy was a dick. Did you hear?” 

Jack nods. “You know he didn’t actually mean anything by it.” Jack’s hands and eyes are on him, focused and intense. 

Kent groans and thumps his head back against the seat. “But it’s true.” Something dark flits across Jack’s face. “I mean, that’s the thing, right? It’s not -- it’s not supposed to be true. When you call someone that, it’s not supposed to be real.” 

Jack’s eyes are still trained on Kent’s face, but Kent doesn’t have anything else to say. He takes a sip of his tea, hands still shaking in spite of the heat from the cup. Jack reaches over and takes the tea from him, setting it in the holder, then laces his fingers with Kent’s. “Still cold?”

“Be careful,” Kent whispers, “don’t want to be lumped in with the fag.”

“Don’t want you to have cold hands. We need these hands soft, not cold. And, besides, fuck them.” Jack’s thumb is rubbing over Kent’s knuckles. It’s soothing. 

“That’s what they’re worried about,” Kent says, hating how small his voice sounds. 

“They don’t know anything about you.” Jack’s thumb is still moving. Kent can’t take his eyes off the movement, off his and Jack’s hands, clasped together in his lap, but he looks up when Jack shifts toward him and touches their foreheads together. 

“Jack?” Kent can feel Jack’s breath warm against his face, warmer than anything else in the car; he can _feel_ the words that spill out of his mouth.

“They don’t know you, Kenny.” Jack lets go of Kent’s hands and touches Kent’s face, puts soft fingers against the back of his neck, and then Jack is kissing him, and all Kent can feel are Jack’s lips against his, so Kent kisses back, and Jack pushes forward, tipping Kent back against the door. Kent huffs a laugh, making Jack pause. 

“Always in fucking cars,” Kent gets out before pulling Jack back to him. “Don’t stop.” 

It’s softer than Kent expected, an edge of hesitancy to everything that fades after a few minutes, and then a shift where everything intensifies until Kent needs to come up for air. He doesn’t want to take his mouth off Jack, so he kisses his jaw and moves down to his neck, drawing out a little hitching gasp when he bites gently at the bit of skin his scarf doesn’t cover, but then Jack jerks back suddenly, cursing.

“What -- “ Kent stutters out, as Jack bends to search the floor.

“I kicked the goddamn tea over,” he says, and Kent bursts out laughing. “It’s all over my fucking shoes, it’s not -- ugh, shut up.” There’s no heat to it, and Jack is smiling as he climbs back into the driver’s seat, Kent following behind him. Jack starts the car and is pulling back onto the main road when he reaches over for Kent’s hand and pulls it to rest on his thigh, then covers it with his own.

“Jack,” Kent starts, but Jack shakes his head.

“We can talk when we get home, yeah?” The street lights illuminate Jack’s face in bursts; his eyes look darker, his bones sharper.

“Yeah, sure,” Kent says, and sits back. He can feel the adrenaline from the game and his anger mixed with something else, something new, something consuming, but before he can tease any deeper meaning out of his thoughts, they’re in the driveway, and then in the basement, shedding their layers of coats and scarves as they go down the stairs, and maybe it was a mistake to let Jack tutor him in French at all, because apparently when Jack said they could talk, what he meant was that he would kick off his tea-soaked shoes, then pull Kent onto the sofa and kiss him breathless. 

Kent loses track of time. He’s sitting in Jack’s lap, his hands in his thick, soft hair, and Jack’s making little noises as Kent bites at his bottom lip. They’re both breathing hard, so Kent pulls back and tugs at Jack’s shirt, which Jack quickly strips off and tosses behind them. Kent’s seen Jack shirtless hundreds of times, but never like this, never with a flush spreading across his chest, never with Jack watching him with dark eyes and wet, red lips. He bends his head to kiss across Jack’s collarbone. “Can I --”

“Yes,” Jack hisses, so Kent takes his time sucking and biting, pulling up the bloom of a bruise, Jack breathing raggedly above him. When he pulls back to inspect his work, Jack is dazed, his eyes glassy. Kent reaches out and flicks at Jack’s nipple, laughing when Jack flinches.

Kent takes a moment, a smile spreading across his face. “Did you know you always noticed? When I had hickeys. You noticed.”

“Did I?” Jack looks so beautiful, flushed and soft under Kent. Kent runs his hands down his chest, skimming over his hips, then reaching to grab his ass and pull them closer. Kent was about to say something, something about him noticing Jack noticing him, but then Jack’s hands are on him, pulling his shirt off and tipping him forward, and Kent’s train of thought stalls out completely at the overwhelming sensation of Jack’s bare chest flush against his. 

Jack lifts his hips just enough for Kent to feel him, hard against Kent’s thigh. It’s shocking how hot Jack’s skin feels as they’re pressed together.

Kent is pretty sure Jack has never been with a guy before, but his hands are on Kent’s ass and his tongue is in his mouth and it feels so good that it doesn’t matter what Jack’s done before, what Kent’s done before; all that matters is this feeling, now, heart racing and blood pounding.

Kent gasps, his body lighting up as Jack shifts just right so that they’re lined up perfectly, the friction through his jeans just on the right side of too much.

“Yeah?” Jack says, moving against him. 

“Yeah,” Kent says, pulling Jack down for another kiss, then pushing his hips down to grind fully into Jack. Jack’s shaky moan at that tips Kent over the edge, and Jack follows seconds later, shuddering, then going loose and pliant under Kent. 

Kent runs his hands up and down Jack’s sides. As their breathing slows, Kent moves so that he’s sitting sideways, his legs slung across Jack’s lap. He angles himself so he can see his face. “Zimms?” 

Jack’s eyes are closed. “Was that okay?”

Kent looks at Jack, sweaty and bitten, his hair wild. 

“Yeah, that was --” Kent can feel too many words dancing against his tongue, so he leans in and kisses Jack to buy himself time. A handful of slow, soft kisses later, Kent can trust himself to open his mouth without anything embarrassing coming out, so he moves from Jack’s lips to pepper little kisses along his jaw, then lays his head against Jack’s shoulder. “That was very much okay.”

Jack’s breath is slow and steady. Kent glances up at his face. His eyes are still closed. “Hey, don’t fall asleep. We have to shower. Jack?”

“Sleepy.”

“Me too. C’mon.” Kent gets up and tugs at Jack’s hands till he follows. Jack drapes himself over Kent as they stumble towards the shower and take turns under the spray. When they’re clean, Kent turns off the water and dries them both, then steers Jack back to bed, making a brief detour to shove their sticky underwear in the washing machine and start the cycle.

Jack’s starfished across the bed and whines as Kent shoves at him to make space. “Wow, do you get come dumb or what.” He escalates his prodding, and Jack finally rolls onto his side so Kent can get in.

“Mmmhmm. Shhh.” Jack’s naked and warm from the shower, and so is Kent. They end up with Kent pressed against Jack’s back, breathing the familiar scent of the soap they share. 

“Goodnight,” Kent whispers, a little overwhelmed all over again; neither clothes nor distance are separating them, and Kent’s awash in emotions he can’t sort. 

Jack doesn’t answer, already asleep. Kent closes his eyes.

* * * *

He wakes up when it’s still dark out. Jack’s curled up beside him, and Kent waits for the world to shift, for the planets to realign, or something, but no, it’s just Jack, sleeping next to him, like he has so many nights before. Except, now, Kent can reach out and gently trail his fingers along Jack’s cheeks, down his throat. Jack’s always beautiful, but here, next to Kent, in this room they share, he’s vulnerable and soft. 

Jack stirs, and the covers by his shoulders slip down a bit revealing the dark bruise Kent left on his collarbone. 

Kent inhales sharply and runs a fingertip over the mark. It’s warmer than the rest of Jack’s skin, the edges uneven, with the darkest part off center. It’s low enough that Jack’s shirt will hide it for most of the day, and if the boys clock it in the locker room they’ll assume it’s from some girl, so that’s fine. 

It’s fine, Kent thinks. 

It’s fine that he left a mark on his best friend’s body, a mark that Jack will carry this around with him, a mark that will probably make Jack think of Kent when he sees it in the mirror, think of touching Kent, and of Kent touching him, just like Kent will think of when he sees it on Jack in the locker room or in their bathroom or --

Before last night, Kent had no idea what it was to kiss Jack, to touch him and be touched by him. And now, he has no idea if he’ll ever be able to think of anything else. 

World, shifted. Planets, realigned. 

Kent gets out of bed as carefully as he can, finds some pajama pants and his phone, and creeps up the stairs. It’s early, so the house is still silent. He goes to the den and shuts the door, then calls Kristen. 

She picks up on the fourth ring. “It is five fucking o’clock, what the hell--”

“You can’t tell anyone.” Kent is pacing, running his hands through his hair.

“Are you okay?”

“No, but you have to promise you won’t tell anyone. Promise?”

“...Kent, if you need money or are in legal trouble you should really tell mom or dad--”

“Fuck, no, just swear you won’t tell.”

“Okay, okay, I won’t tell anyone.”

“I’m gay.” It rushes out before Kent can stop it, no warming up or careful narrative like he’d always planned. 

It’s the first time he’s ever said it.

There’s a few seconds of silence, then a sigh from Kristen. “Allison is going to be so devastated.”

“What?”

“Allison. My best friend? She tried to get you to go to a water park with her this summer?”

“Oh my god, Kristen--”

“I know, it’s super gross. It’ll be easier to listen to her gushing about your stats when I know she doesn’t have a chance. Oh my god, Kent, do you have a boyfriend?”

Kent hesitates. “Maybe?”

“Maybe?” He can hear Kristen moving around her room. “Look, I would never tell Allison this, but you are a catch. If this boy doesn’t know that you should move on.”

“Yeah,” Kent says, sitting down on the couch. “Like, I appreciate what you’re doing here, but I’m freaking out and I really need you to listen to me.”

The rustling noises stop. “Sorry. I am here for you. Talk.”

And Kent does, about Brian and Marc, and about Jack, glossing over names and certain events. By the time he’s done, he feels lighter. “So, you’re not going to tell me your boyfriend’s name?” Kristen asks, and Kent can hear the pout. 

“I don’t know if he’s my boyfriend, and no.” Kent looks out the window, where the sun is just starting to rise. Jan and Tim will be up soon. “Hey, I gotta go.”

“Okay, but you need to talk to this guy and see what’s up. Oh, is it Jack?” Kent freezes.

“No.”

“Too bad. He’s cute.”

“Bye, Kristen. Good talk!” Kent can hear her laughing. 

“Yeah, good talk. But, hey, bro? Do not tell mom or dad.“ 

Right. That.

They say their goodbyes and Kent detours to the bathroom before heading back downstairs. As he looks in the mirror while he washes his hands, he freezes. Stark against his pale upper arm is a pattern of small bruises, five small ovals, unmistakably fingertips. He runs a still wet finger over them, pressing in and relishing the soft pain.

Jack must have been really wrecked the night before because he’s still asleep when Kent slips back into bed. It’s the smell of breakfast wafting down the stairs that finally wakes him up, and when he opens his eyes, he smiles. “Hey.”

His hair is a mess and he has pillow lines on his face, but he’s the most beautiful boy Kent has ever seen. He reaches out and runs his hand over Jack’s arm, feather soft. “Hey, look at you.”

Jack flushes. “Yeah?” 

“Oh, yeah.” He traces Jack’s bicep with his fingertips, and Jack fucking _shivers_. “Hey, Zimms?” Jack raises his eyebrow. “That hickey is fucking massive.” Jack looks confused for a minute, then jumps up and runs to the bathroom. “You fucker,” is all Kent hears before Jack’s back in the bed, tackling him. It’s a short fight because Kent is not above playing dirty and as soon as Jack has him pinned, Kent surges up and kisses him, using the distraction to flip him and pin him down. 

Jack laughs and grabs Kent’s hands from his shoulders and pulls him down. “Good morning,” he murmurs, and Kent could die right now, with Jack under him, kissing him in the faint winter morning sun edging through the windows. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :D :D :D :D
> 
> Thanks to summerfrost for Remmy's nickname, important contributions about things teenage boys struggle with aka smoke detectors, and her endless cheerleading. 
> 
> Comments much appreciated!


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some teenage hijinks, some injuries, and some storms, metaphorical and otherwise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tags updated.

They beat Moncton, but the Wildcats didn’t go down easy, and Kent is sore down to his bones by the time the team trudges onto the bus and back to their hotel. He’s tired but vibrating with energy, just like the rest of the boys, so they horse around in the empty breakfast room off the lobby, bullshitting and playing cards till the coaches come and yell at them about curfew. 

Kent pauses as they walk through a corridor off the lobby, looking longingly at the door to the heated indoor pool. It closed half an hour before they got back, the chlorine smell wafting down the hall a cruel tease, and they’ll be well into their ride to the next game by the time it opens again tomorrow. 

Resigned, he climbs up the stairs to his and Jack’s third-floor room. Jack’s already there, sprawled on a bed and flipping through the tv. 

Maybe five minutes later Kent answers the knock for curfew headcount and opens the door wide enough so Coach can see Jack. He checks something off on his clipboard and is on his way. Before Kent can even fully shut the door something soft hits him in the back of the head and tumbles down to his feet. 

It’s his swim trunks, and when he picks them up and turns to look at Jack, he’s got the grin on his face that Kent loves but doesn’t trust for even a second. “So,” Kent says, “hate to break it to you, but the pool’s closed and the tub isn’t really that big --”

“And I watched the custodian key in the door code this morning so shove those under your shirt and c’mon.” Jack walks up to the door and bumps Kent out of the way so he can leave.

All that’s left for Kent to do is follow.

They end up crouched behind an ice machine on the first floor, waiting for the slowest moving family of four _ever_ to get on the elevator. As soon as the door dings shut, they hurry to pool room door. Jack punches in the numbers and the lock whirrs, clicks, and they’re in.

They wait by the door for their eyes to adjust to the dark room. “We have to be really quiet,” Jack whispers to Kent’s left. There’s the rustling sounds of fabric, so Kent gets undressed, too, and slips on his trunks. 

The air is chilly but the water is warm as he carefully steps down the stairs. He swims until he hits the wall under the diving board, then grabs the edge and holds on till Jack comes up beside him and raises a small squat bottle up out of the water. Kent makes a face. “Where exactly were you hiding that?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know.” Jack treads water as he unscrews the cap and takes a gulp, passing the bottle to Kent. Whatever is inside burns as Kent swallows. 

They swim silently, gliding more than anything else to try and avoid splashes that could give them away. Whenever they make a full lap they pause for another mouthful of cheap whiskey, and it feels like no time at all till the bottle’s empty and Kent’s warm inside and out. 

He rolls onto his back and floats, looking at the dark skylight above, hazy with condensation. He can’t see them, but he’s sure there are stars out there, somewhere, and other things, like cold wind, and hockey, and their basement room, and even further, places like Buffalo and Las Vegas and Anaheim, and lotteries and contracts and -- 

Jack’s hand bumps against Kent’s thigh from where he’s floating, too, and Kent sits up, grabbing it and towing Jack to him. It’s shallow enough that they can stand, barely, and Jack’s lips burn Kent’s just like the alcohol did. 

Kent’s on his tiptoes, a little off balance in the gentle waves of the water but too intent on kissing Jack to do anything about it. Jack’s hands slip down to his waist, a solid anchor in the darkness of the unlit water. A sigh slips out of Kent as he pulls away, putting bare inches between them. “We should -- maybe not here.” 

Jack licks his lips and Kent wants to take it back, to keep them in this pool until their fingers wrinkle, until the sun breaks through the skylight above, the only welcome intruder to this. “Yeah,” Jack says, “yeah, you’re right.” 

When they get back to their piles of clothes, Kent looks around and frowns. “You brought towels, right?”

“Uh.” Jack grimaces.

“Aww, c’mon.” There’s not much to be done except to struggle into their clothes as best they can and slip back into the hall with sopping wet hair and wet patches spreading across their sweats. The stairwell is freezing but empty, and they make it back to their room unnoticed. 

Kent goes directly into the shower, letting the hot water beat against him and rinse away the chlorine. His eyes are closed so he startles when Jack pulls open the curtain and joins him. It’s a tight fit, and Kent lands a solid elbow to Jack’s side as they lather up, but he seems to be forgiven quickly because when he goes to reach around Jack for shampoo, Jack grabs his hand mid-air and gently lowers it until it’s hovering over his cock. 

Kent’s eyes go wide. It’s the smallest of movements to close the distance and then Jack’s hot and hard in his hand. They’ve made out and rubbed off on each other a half dozen times in the past week, but this is the first time he’s gotten his hands on Jack like this, and he’s a little overwhelmed until Jack reaches over and wraps his hand around Kent’s dick and then he’s totally gone. 

Everything is slick with soap and Kent’s still buzzed, hazy and loose from the booze and the warmth of the water. He presses his forehead against Jack’s shoulder and can feel his muscles twitching as his hand moves, still a little hesitant, too gentle. “I’m not going to break,” Kent gets out, “just -- ah! Yeah,” and now it’s perfect and he’s struggling to string together words and ask Jack if it’s working for him, but before he gets that far Jack tenses and comes, making the gasping sounds that Kent loves.

It’s another minute till Kent finishes, and Jack kisses him through it, missing Kent’s lips as much as he finds them, dopey and drunk and unguarded.

Jack’s asleep the instant his head hits the pillow, curled into Kent, their legs tangled together. A week ago Kent would have laughed if someone said there were things he didn’t know about Jack, as if there were things that he hadn’t cataloged over the past year and a half, but now Kent knows there’s so much more, a library of new noises and touches and feelings, nameless and uncategorizable. 

One that does have a name bubbles up to the top through the mire of Kent’s sleep-fogged brain, threatening to spill over, but Kent’s drifting to sleep, warm and sated and happy, any bothersome feelings tucked safely away for another day.

The next morning they drive to Acadie-Bathurst to play the Titans. The vibe on the bus is tense -- playoffs are just over a month away, and every game is a chance not only to win, but to tease out the strengths and weaknesses of their opponents. 

Oceanic is damn good, and Kent won’t allow himself to think that they could go all the way, but...they could go all the way. That would give him and Jack a boost before the combine --

It’s a lot to think about. He forces himself to tense his muscles, then relax from his toes to his shoulders. They’re less than halfway through the three hour ride, and any calm last night created is long gone. 

“Jack?” Kent asks. “Can I have a. Uhm. You know. A...breath mint?”

Jack looks at him levelly. “The special ones? You know where they are.” Kent bends down to rummage through Jack’s backpack, palming a pill. He washes it down with some tepid Gatorade.

“I’m taking a nap,” he says, pressing into Jack’s side and putting his head on his shoulder. He’s got his hoodie over him as an impromptu blanket. Enough of it covers Jack’s side that he can reach for his hand. He drifts off like that, soothed by the rhythm of the bus, and Jack’s fingers running over the back of his hands.

* * * *

It is an utter shitshow of a game for the first period. Too many penalties, too many missed chances, but by the middle of the second, they’re up by two. The Titans' defense is on Kent more than anyone else, and he can’t get the puck out. He’s pissed off before the second intermission, and the break does nothing to calm him down. He returns the ice furious and distracted enough by the constant pressure of the blue liners that he doesn’t see the check coming.

He goes down hard and his ankle screams at him in a way he knows he won’t be able to just skate off, so he heads off ice, past the fistbumps of his teammates who get to stay on the bench and make a goddamn difference while he’s out for the rest of the game and a two-point lead is so far from a win --

\-- he takes a minute to steady himself a few steps into the tunnel to the locker rooms, brushing someone’s hand off his shoulder. “Gimme a sec. I just -- I just need a second.” When he turns and looks out onto the ice, he can just see Jack’s face as he swerves around two players to steal the puck.

It’s angry. 

Good.

Kent limps to the trainer’s room and hops up on a table, gritting his teeth and swinging his leg from side to side, refusing to let his skate be taken off until the center’s game broadcast is put on and turned up. Melodie, who is under usual circumstances his favorite of the training staff, is extremely unimpressed, muttering under her breath as she gets his skate off and asks him to bend and rotate his foot. 

The game audio is tinny and cuts out a lot, finally coming back strong to announce that Oceanic is now up by four thanks to two Zimmermann goals. Kent sags in relief, all the fight going out of him. They’re 9 minutes away from sweeping this roadie, there’s a chance Jack will get a hattie, and Melodie just declared his ankle a level one sprain that should be fine for the following weekend’s matches. “Hey, Mel?”

“Don’t call me Mel.” Her back’s to him as she looks through a cabinet, pulling out an ankle wrap then turning back to him. “You know the drill, wear this --”

“Ughhhhh, fucking wraps, they itch and they make my foot sweat and then it smells --” she lobs the wrap at him. He catches it before it smacks him in the face. Barely. “What the fuck?”

“Your feet already smell, and I knew you’d catch it.”

“And if I didn’t?”

“It’s fabric, Parson. We’re going to ice you for ten minutes, you’re going to shower, then more ice. I’ll find you on the bus and wrap you in about an hour.”

“I can wrap my own fucking ankle,” he mumbles.

“Hey, you know what I’m going to need you to do? Stop being a brat. Like, now.”

Tears prick at the corners of his eyes. He’s not going to cry cause he hurt his foot, and he knows he’s being shitty, and he’s frustrated and in pain and kind of wants his mom, but none of this is Melodie’s problem.

“I’m sorry.” He means it. “I’ll do better. No lollipop for being a good patient today, huh?”

She shoves a Gatorade in his hand. 

Kent sighs and grabs the ice pack next to him, pressing it to his ankle. “Good boy,” Melodie says. She takes a tootsie roll out of her back pocket. “If you complain about it not being a lollipop --”

“Nope, great, love me a tootsie roll, thanks Mel...uh, Melodie.” 

As she finishes up checking things off on a clipboard, Kent hears the faint sounds of someone yelling coming closer and closer. The door swings open and their assistant coach shoulders his way in, propping up and half dragging Jack, who is bitching his head off. “I’m _fine_ , let me go back, you can’t —“

He stumbles, and Kent’s up quicker than his ankle would like, moving to Jack’s other side and trying to help him get to a table. “Christ, Parson,” Coach Mac says, doing the lion's share of hoisting Jack up. “You’re in no shape, and neither are you Zimmermann. It’s --”

“We’re only up by two, if I’m not out there we can still lose, if you don’t let go of me -- _”_

Kent sucks in his breath as he and Mac look at each other. They’re up by four, not two, and Jack’s the one who scored the goals to get them there.

And he doesn’t remember.

Fuck.

“Can it, Zimmermann.” Melodie shoves past them, putting her hands on either side of Jack’s face and tilting his him up toward hers. ”C’mon, Jack, open those baby blues up wide for me.”

Kent’s seen concussion checks before, always offering up silent thanks that it’s not him. Instead, now, it’s supplication of _please, please, please let him be ok._

Suddenly, Jack shoves Melodie away, pitching forward and vomiting onto the floor. 

Melodie hands Jack a bottle of water and an empty cup, then looks at Kent. “You, go shower. Ice, wrap, Advil, and no skating for three days. You,” she says, pointing to Jack, “are going to the ER.” She moves to help Jack down when he’s done rinsing his mouth. “We’ll call your parents on the way.”

Jack’s wobbly as he leans on her, silent as he’s guided to the door. 

The last thing Kent sees is him looking back over his shoulder at Kent, mouthing something he can’t understand. 

* * * *

The bus leaves after the game without Jack or Coach Mac, heading back to Rimouski. Their ETA is about one in the morning, and Kent would love to sleep, but his ankle hurts and he can’t stop fidgeting; there’s no outlet for his anxiety and fear on the late night hush of the bus. Remmy’s sitting next to him, not complaining about how Kent’s constant movement is keeping him awake. He takes out his iPod and offers Kent an earbud.

It turns out Jay-Z is unexpectedly comforting in a crisis Who knew?

Cell reception is pretty much zilch as they drive across the middle-of-nowhere, Quebec, so it’s not till he gets back to the Olsen’s that he finds out Jack’s staying in the hospital overnight for observation. They’ll rent a car and drive back as soon as Mac gets some sleep. 

Tim must have gotten a call that Jack wasn’t coming back because he’s waiting up for Kent. He makes him a huge sandwich and rounds up a pharmacy’s worth of ice packs to shove in the freezer. “I’ve had sprains before,” Kent days around a mouthful of roast beef and Swiss, “kind of a lot, actually.”

Tim ruffles his hair, then leans over the back of the chair to wrap Kent in a hug. “I can’t help Jack tonight. Let me smother you.” He squeezes. “Literally.”

“Ugh, gross,” Kent whines, but he grabs Tim’s arms and holds on for a long minute, the tightness of his grip giving him away. 

When Tim lets go he takes the chair across from Kent and leans over to steal a handful of chips from his plate. “Jan and I have been hosting players for years now, and I can’t tell you that concussions aren’t serious, but all our boys who had them were just fine after a bit of rest.”

Kent tilts his head back and stares at the ceiling, fighting back tears for a second time that night.

“Maybe,” Tim says, “you could call your mom. Talking to a nurse might help, yeah?”

It takes a minute and a lot of throat clearing before Kent can talk. “It’s almost two in the morning.”

“She won’t care,” Tim says. 

He shepherds Kent up to the den. “I’ll wait up for you in the kitchen,” he says, closing the door.

Kent wishes that the cordless phone worked in the basement so he could do this wrapped up in bed, but instead he’s on the scratchy plaid couch. 

His mom answers on the third ring, her voice sleepy, and he barely gets out a shaky “Mom?” before he’s crying.

“Baby, are you hurt?” She sounds wide awake, now. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m fine, I swear, but Jack’s….it’s Jack, mom. He’s all fucked up and I wasn’t out there and now he’s, he’s...I can’t help him.” Once the words start pouring out they don’t stop, and it takes longer than it should to tell her what happened because he’s trying to talk around shuddering sobs. When he finishes, there’s a long beat of empty air before she responds.

“Ok, honey. I know it looked really bad, but the first few minutes or so are usually the worst of it. Did he lose consciousness?” “I don’t know cause I wasn’t there, if I’d been there--”

“Baby, let’s not try to change what already happened. If you’d been there, he could have still gotten hit, or not, and it doesn’t matter. He’s getting taken care of, and when you find out more you call me right away and I’ll tell you if any of it sounds like bullshit, ok?”

Kent sniffles. “You promise?”

“Yes. Jack’s gonna be fine. I promise. Now, you know what I think you need?”

“Ugh, mom, no. That’s kids stuff.”

“And you’re my kid. You start.”

Kent rolls his eyes. “Fine. Good thing number one is that we won.”

“Two, I found an earring that went missing. Your next one cannot be about hockey.”

“Fine. Three is...uh. Hold on. Oh yeah, they had Belgian waffles at breakfast.”

“Four, I won a bet with Gemma at work and she has to buy me Starbucks for all my shifts next week.”

“Brutal. Okay, five. Five is,” Kent takes a deep breath. “Five is that Jack is going to be okay.”

“Yes, he is.” Her voice is soft and gentle, the voice he knows from scraped knees and bad days and all the other hurts a mom fixes. “Now, go to sleep, and everything will feel better in the morning. I love you.”

“I love you too, mom.” He hangs up and, amazingly, does feel better.

Tim is dozing in the kitchen. Kent wakes him up and manages to assure him that he’s going to be okay. 

Downstairs, he splashes water on his face and changes, slipping into the Habs shirt Jack wears to bed. It’s soft and smells like him, and Kent drifts off to sleep soon enough. 

* * * *

He gets dropped off by Tim at the rink the next afternoon. It’s a light day; just optional skate, which Kent will definitely not be on the ice for. He’s still limping, and his foot is too hot and he’s wearing one of his own shoes and one of Jacks cause of the bulk of the wrap, and it’s pissing him off.

He’s not in the best mood when he gets called to the office. 

Coach Anders and Coach Leblanc are there, but, to Kent’s shock, so is Coach Mac. 

“Jack’s already out? Is he at the house?”

Mac shakes his head. “No, son, his parents came in this morning and took over. He’s looking good. Needs some rest. We don’t know if he’ll be at full fighting strength till after our next games, so we’ll need you to step up till he’s back.”

“Oh.” Kent’s mind is reeling. “I mean. Yeah, that’s -- I can do that.”

“You wear that A well, Parson. I know you’ll do us proud. How’s the ankle? Think you’ll be good for tomorrow’s practice?”

Kent doesn’t even pause before he answers. 

“Absolutely.”

* * * *

If he threw Jan and Tim’s phone out the window, Jan and Tim would be mad at him. 

No, not mad.

Disappointed.

Kent stares at the phone in his hand, still displaying the duration of his call with Jack. Fifty-five minutes and thirty-seven seconds of Jack over analyzing the Tigres offensive strategy, like Kent hasn’t also played the motherfuckers a million times, Jesus. 

Jack’s stuck in a hotel with his parents, who decided a drive back to Montreal wouldn’t be good for his head. He’s more or less on house arrest with zero television or books, and one hundred percent of his parents’ focus. His one joy seeming to be calling Kent every five minutes with important hockey thoughts. 

He is driving Kent absolutely crazy. He feels like strangling someone who just had brain trauma would be unkind, but if he gets one more phone call today, he’d seriously entertain the idea.

What he doesn’t want is to be having so much fun being temporary captain. Like, sure, he and Jack had always been a team, trading off duties pretty evenly, but Kent’s last name is Parson and no one came onto the team knowing much about him other than his basic stats. 

But the past week, the boys have risen up and given him great teamwork. The coaches keep rotating the lines, and Kent’s play is definitely a little off as he struggles to find a groove with a bigger rotation of lineys than he’s used to, but things are clicking. 

Which is great, especially since the Zimmermanns show up a half hour before their game to watch from rinkside. 

Bob’s been to plenty of games, but there’s still a shift in the energy when a living legend is watching you play, and tonight the team feeds off it.

They obliterate the Tigres 5-1.

The Zimmermanns are nowhere to be seen after the game, which probably means Jack’s staying in a hotel with them tonight. Kent goes out with the Olsens and a couple other guys and their billet families to reign terror on an all-you-can-eat buffet. 

When he gets back to the house he grabs a soda and heads downstairs, flicking the lights on at the top of the stairs.

“Turn them off.”

Kent doesn’t shriek, but it’s close. 

Jack’s voice reiterates, “Turn them off.”

“I need to see to get down the stairs.”

“Leave the door open, then.”

Kent does and makes his way into the dark basement. There’s just enough light coming in through their high, weird windows from the outside house lights that he can see the silhouette of Jack on the couch. 

Kent makes his way over and sits down, cracking his soda open and taking a long drink before he talks. “You’re not with your parents?”

Jack sighs. “They were on my last nerve. You took forever with dinner.”

“Nelsy ate almost an entire roast beef and then still had room for a sundae. It was magical.”

“An entire -- you went to all-you-can-eat without me?” Jack sounds genuinely sad at the thought.

 _I captained the team without you,_ runs through Kent’s head, unwanted and uninvited, but there all the same. “Yeah, we went, but I was thinking of you the whole time, baby, I swear.”

“Promises, promises.” Jack leans back and pinches the bridge of his nose. “My head hurts.”

He wants to see Jack in the light, to look him in the eye, touch his face, run his hands over his body and make sure, for real, that he’s ok, but it’s dark, and his hands feel like lead, and he doesn’t know what to do. He tries to hold back, to be strong, but the words slip out in a whisper.

“You really scared me. I didn’t know how long you’d be gone or what was happening.”

Jack reaches out for his hand, missing and settling for patting Kent’s thigh. “It’s okay. I’ll be cleared to play for our next game.”

It’s dark enough that Jack probably can’t see Kent’s face. “It’s not -- I mean, yeah, that’s good, but --” Kent takes a deep breath. “I missed you.”

Jack turns and Kent can’t see his eyes in the dark. “I’m here”

And that’s true, and that’s enough. Kent leans over against his shoulder, and they sit in the silence.

That night he dreams of beaches and drowning in crashing waves, waking up to the reassuring feel of Jack next to him, his breath on his face, his leg against Kent’s. 

It’s enough. 

* * * *

There’s noise coming from upstairs; they probably should get up.

Kent’s not sure when they got to the bed from the couch, but they're face to face, Jack still asleep, and Kent’s fingers are in his hair, playing with the end bits that are just starting to curl as they get long. 

His eyes open, clear and piercing blue, and Kent can feel the smile spread across his own face. He taps Jack on the nose, then runs his finger down over his lips, finger catching and pulling a little on the lower one. “Hey, look at you.”

“Morning,” Jack says, his voice a little rough and his lips moving against Kent’s finger. “My head hurts.”

“You want me to get you something?” 

“I’ll take some Tylenol when I get up.”

“We should do that soon. The getting up.”

Jack nestles further into his pillow. “Not yet.”

He’s so soft like this, in this tiny space they share, and it’s so warm, and it’s the exact opposite of what Kent expected. “You’re really chill.”

Jack blinks slowly. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“You know. All the hospital and doctor stuff, being away from the team so close to the end of the season,” Kent pauses. _Being away from me_ , he thinks, but doesn’t say.

“It’s fine. All the scans and tests and stuff were annoying, but I took some stuff to relax, and I’m good, Kenny, I swear.”

“What stuff?”

Jack shrugs.

“So, you’re not hurting? I mean, any more?”

“No. Hungry, tho. Think Tim will make French toast?”

“I think between your head and my ankle we can make a strong case for it.”

Jack furrows his brow. “Your ankle?”

“Sprain. It’s almost better.”

“Oh, that’s good.” Jack gets up and stretches, a little wobble to it. 

Tim is very amenable to French toast, as it turns out, and when the whole family sits down to eat, Kent feels his body unclench. 

Tim drives them to the rink, Kent riding shotgun and Jack complaining about it, and it’s the best thing Kent’s heard all week.

* * * * 

Jack is a total dick at practice.

No one is surprised.

* * * *

It’s a week, maybe, before things level off, a combination of Jack getting back to normal and the team getting tired of walking on eggshells around him. 

They’re at home, Kent busy rooting through his equipment bag, frowning at the sticky wrapper of a candy bar that’s spread chocolate over his spare socks. “Gross,” he says, trying to flick the wrapper off and failing.

Jack’s flipping channels without really seeing anything. “If we don’t leave soon, we’ll be late.”

Kent debates just throwing the socks away but takes the high road of dumping them in the laundry. “Bro, it’s snowing like crazy. Even beyond, like, Canada crazy. They’re gonna cancel.”

“The can’t cancel practice, we need --” The sound of the kitchen phone ringing comes down the stairs and both of them jump up, shoving and grabbing at each other as they try to be the first up the stairs. 

Jan rolls her eyes at them when they finally make it into the kitchen and carries on her conversation. “Yup, I’ll call Sharon. Thanks.” She hangs up and puts her earring back on. “Practice is canceled, boys. Hopefully the plows make it out tomorrow.”

“I told you,” Kent says, thwacking Jack solidly across his chest. 

Jack mumbles something and slinks toward the fridge.

It takes a while for Jan to finish calling other families to tell them, but eventually, she finishes, then sighs and heads upstairs. Jack and Kent follow her, ignoring her glares. When she gets to Madeleine's door, she pauses, then knocks hard to be heard over the sound of a hairdryer. 

Madeleine’s got a full face of makeup on and her hair half dried when she comes out, still wrapped in her bathrobe. “Did Alan call?”

“No,” Jan says. “Sorry, but I’m canceling your date. The town’s shutting down and no one’s going anywhere.”

“But it’s Valentine’s Day!” Madeleine wails before slamming the door. Jack and Kent snicker, unable to stop even when Jan glares at them.

She shoves past them, muttering, “Les enfants mal élevés,” and when she’s safely downstairs they collapse into giggles. 

“Maaaaads,” Kent singsongs. “Playing board games with your family is just as exciting as a date.”

Something heavy hits the inside of the door.

“Madeleine,” Jack says, “we’ll be your Valentines, isn’t that nice of us?”

“Nice? You burped in my face last week,” Madeleine screeches from behind the door. “I hate you both!”

“Fine, reject our sincere offers,” Kent says. He’s about to open his mouth again when they hear the sounds of footsteps and the squeak of the doorknob turning. 

They book it down to the basement, locking the door behind them.

* * * *

Despite Madeleine’s glowering, it’s actually a really nice night. The power blinks off and on enough that Tim builds a big fire in the living room, and Jack and Kent use some of the pile of blankets Jan produces to build a very haphazard but cozy fort in the corner. They cannot lure Maddy in, even with heavily marshmallowed hot cocoa, and Kent’s promises to not cheat at Yahtzee this time. 

It gets late enough that the fire’s dying down and everyone’s sleepy and warm and not inclined to move, so Jan decides that they’ll all just sack out there for safety and coziness. Kent and Jack fall asleep in the ridiculous fort, piled under so many blankets that Kent eventually wakes up sweating. He re-arranges the nest their engulfed in and snuggles up to Jack’s back; they can’t be found out when it’s just for body heat, and it barely matters, anyway. They’re surrounded by warmth and family and each other, safe against the cold and wind. “Happy Valentine’s Day,” Kent breathes into Jack’s back, as quiet as he can. 

The next day the sky is and the plows are slowly winding their way through the streets, so they fold up the blankets and set the living room back in order. Jack put chains on his tires months ago, but he still drives carefully to the rink. They let themselves in and wait for the rest of the team, not really doing much of anything on the ice, together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, as always, to summerfrost for cheerleading and beta work, and to staunchlyanonymous for the medical beta and some nice editing catches.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A brief break at the season's end, but no respite from the drama of being seventeen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please know that drinking, partying, and drunk sex is going to escalate from here on out. All parties are enthusiastic participants, but your mileage may vary on consent when totally wasted.

They were supposed to watch tape together around 4. Kent had written it on his hand, even, and now it’s almost 4:30, and Jack is still upstairs in the den talking to his dad, just like he does every Wednesday afternoon, and Kent is bored.

If Jack were the one waiting for Kent, he’d probably be jogging in place or doing crunches or something.

Kent, on the other hand, has managed a personal best time of balancing a hockey stick upright on his hand.

He’s trying to beat 43 seconds when Jack comes down the stairs, startling him. 

By some miracle the ugly lamp on the nightstand survives, so that’s probably a win.

Jack’s carrying a half dozen notebooks tucked under his arm and has a determined look on his face, but his phone rings before he can say anything. Kent eyes his hockey stick, now resting against the wall.

“Hello? We were about to start -- no, we don’t,” Jack rolls his eyes, “Let me check. Okay, okay, just hold on.”

He turns to Kent and heaves a long suffering sigh. “My father wants to talk to me. He swears it will only take five minutes. Sorry.”

“Playoffs are actually two weeks away, you know. I think five more minutes is fine, but, um, is stuff okay?”

Jack looks confused. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

Kent chooses his words carefully. “You know, you just talked to your dad for like, an hour. Which is fine, totally fine, but -- is there something going on? I mean, you don’t have to tell me. I just -- you know, I’m here.”

Jack looks even more confused. “I haven’t talked to my -- oh. Oh, yeah. Uh, he just. Forgot something? That he needs to tell me. About what we were talking about.”

“Okay, weirdo. Five minutes.”

He doesn’t come back for ten, which is just enough time for Kent to get a new best time in stick balancing, and then sweep up the remains of the ugly lamp and hide the shade deep within the recesses of their incredibly messy closet. 

* * * *

The last week of the regular season coincides with Kristen’s spring break, so she comes up to visit. When she comes down into the basement, Madeleine following behind, she stops short at the bottom of the stairs. “It smells like boy,” she says, wrinkling her nose.

“Huh?” Kent takes a few quick sniffs. It’s fine? Like, yeah, it smells kind of like the soap and deodorant he and Jack both use, and kind of like basement and kind of like hockey, but it’s not _bad_. 

“I know,” Madeleine says in her lilting, slightly accented English. “This is why I do not come down here. You will stay in my room, obviously.”

Kristen turns heel and as the two girls climb the stairs, Kent can hear them giggling. It’s a far cry from the icy stare down over the dinner table two years ago. He doesn’t understand it, but he’ll take it. 

The next day she asks Kent if she can ride with him and Jack to watch warm-ups and meet the boys. “No,” is out of his mouth before she even finishes asking.

“Trust me,” Madeleine pipes up from across the room, “they’re almost all gross.” She pauses, a sly grin spreading across her face. “You will meet them at the family skate. I will introduce you to Remmy, who is a disaster but also cute --”

“On second thought,” Kent says, hustling Kristen out the door, “why don’t you come with Jack and me?”

It turns out Remmy has not managed to develop any sort of game whatsoever in the past few months. At least Kristen is nice to him.

The day before their last game they have community and family skate, to thank the town for its support. It’s a little pointless since it’s not like there’s much to do in Rimouski other than watch hockey, but it’s fun. A lot of people linger in the stands to chat, but there’s a decent crowd on the ice. 

Kristen’s attempts to teach some of the guys basic figure skating jumps are hilarious all around, especially when a girl who’s maybe six years old skates over and totally owns them. 

He’s glad she’s having fun because he’s busy skating with little kids for most of the event, half pushing and half dragging them around the ice, hearing them giggle when other players pull up by them and gently spray them with ice. He ends up giving a lot of piggyback rides and herding kids back and forth to the hot chocolate station set up behind the stands. 

On his way back to the ice, he stops at the edge of the rink to finish his own cup of cocoa, loaded with marshmallows, and take in the scene of happy people enjoying the ice, no pressure, no stress. It’s nice. He scans the rink for Kristen, but his eyes settle on Jack instead, who’s leaning across the boards talking to a very pretty girl. She laughs and gently shoves at his shoulder, and though he can’t see Jack’s face, he can feel the returning grin. 

Drink forgotten, Kent watches her walk a few feet to the gate and gingerly step on the ice, squealing and wobbling. Jack immediately moves to steady her, then skates backward, holding her hands and gently pulling her along. He’s saying something to her, and slowly she starts to push off side to side, propelling herself forward instead of relying solely on Jack. 

After half a lap he turns and falls back to her side, his hand on her waist. They’re gaining a little bit of speed and are almost to where Kent is; he turns away, his eyes landing on a garbage can, and walks over to throw out his still full drink, lingering a few extra seconds just to be sure they’ll have passed him. 

When he gets back, they’re paused back by the gate. She goes onto the tips of her toes -- suspicious, when before she could barely move forward without help -- and steadies herself with one hand on Jack's chest so she can lean forward and whisper something in his ear. 

Kent looks away, and it’s just his luck that he locks eyes with Kristen, who he hadn’t noticed sitting in the stands above and to his left. Her face is inscrutable. He can feel embarrassment pinking his cheeks, even if he’s not entirely sure why.

He finishes the night sitting with the kids at the activity tables and posing for lots of “candid” photos the team publicist takes. When Jack finally comes to pick him up so they can change and go home, Kent is wearing three macaroni necklaces and a very lopsided cardboard tiara. “BYE, PRINCESS KENT,” a munchkin named Mallory screams, and it is with great dignity that Kent stands up and says, in the falsetto he’s been using for the duration of his conversation with her, “And goodbye to you, Princess Mallory.”

He straightens his tiara and heads to the locker room. 

“So,” Jack says as they change into their street clothes. “You seem to have made a friend.”

Kent gently folds his tiara and wraps the necklaces around it before putting it in his bag. “I did. Mallory and I are going to rule the Kingdom of Pretty Ponies. And you can’t visit.”

“Harsh,” Jack says. 

There’s a pause as Kent stares into his locker and wraps his scarf around his neck, a pause he knows he should let go on, his mouth closed tight. 

Knowing and doing are two different things.

“Seems like you made a friend, too.” 

“Huh?” Jack asks over the clatter of his skates being shoved into a cubby. 

“That girl you were skating with.” Kent’s never taken so long putting on gloves and a hat. “Looked like you guys were having fun.”

“Oh, yeah. She was nice.” 

“What’s her name?”

“Uh, Chloe. You almost ready? I’m starving.”

Kent plasters a smile on his face and turns to face Jack. “Ready. Let’s get home.”

Dinner that night is amazing because Kristen lugged a cooler full of their mom’s beef stew up, and Tim made biscuits from scratch, and it’s so good that they all stuff themselves before Jan announces that there’s a chocolate cake hidden in the oven.

It’s early enough that they have time to start a game of Risk, but no so early that they can finish it. Jan makes everyone, including Tim, solemnly swear that they will not move anything on the board until the next time they play. Kent swears with his fingers crossed behind his back.

The boys say goodnight and head downstairs even though there’s a good half hour before their usual bedtime. It’s been a long day.

By the time Kent finishes brushing his teeth, Jack is curled up on the sofa, nose in a book that was part of his last care package. Kent leans against the bathroom door and watches him for a long minute. He’s wearing a worn Penguins sweatshirt and sweatpants, his feet bare and tucked under his thighs. The overhead light is casting weird shadows on his face.

Kent’s mind flashes back to Chloe, her mouth next to Jack’s ear.

Jack yawns and stretches, sitting up properly and peering over his book. “Should we hit the hay?”

Kent strides over and plucks the book out of his hands and lets it fall to the floor. “No.”

“What the hell? Now I’ve lost my page --” but Jack doesn’t get to finish his complaint because Kent straddles his lap and kisses him, hard and desperate and hungry.

When he pulls away to gasp for breath, Jack looks dazed. “What are you --”

“I missed you,” Kent says, nonsensically.

“I’m right here,” Jack says, and Kent leans back in.

It doesn’t take long to get Jack worked up and tugging at the waist of Kent’s pajama pants. “No,” Kent says, sliding down Jack’s body and to the floor, “I want this.”

“What are you -- oh my god, are you going to --.” Kent palms him through his sweats, cups his balls, and Jack shuts up. He leans in and kisses Jack’s belly where his sweatshirt’s rucked up, nosing at the hair there, then moves his hands to pull at the waistband of Jack’s sweats. Jack lifts his hips.

He’s not wearing underwear.

Kent takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly. 

He hasn’t done this before. 

Well, mostly. There was one attempt with Marc, and he’d gone too fast too soon and ended up choking and coughing so hard that it had totally ruined the mood and, like.

He and Marc hadn’t had a ton of sex, actually. 

And now Jack’s cock is inches from his face. 

Kent can hear him breathing hard above him, so he looks up and --

\-- holy shit.

_Holy shit._

Jack’s pulled up his sweatshirt and is tugging at a nipple, his eyes focused on Kent like lasers. He licks his lips, then groans when Kent reaches out to give his cock a firm stroke.

“Please.”

And that’s enough for Kent to lean forward and take Jack in his mouth. He goes slowly, so slowly, trying to pay attention to what makes Jack gasp and twitch, taking a little more bit by bit. 

He gets a little lost in it, the sensation of Jack threading his fingers through his hair almost unnoticed until Kent changes how he’s moving his tongue and Jack’s whole body jerks, his hands tightening just enough to make Kent’s scalp sting and bring him back to earth, back to where Jack is whispering his name, a litany of _Kenny, Kenny, Kenny,_ his name on Jack’s lips, his mouth on Jack’s cock, his, his, his.

He takes a deep breath and goes down as far as he can, and Jack trembles beneath him, his thighs tightening around Kent’s ears, but even that doesn’t block the sound of his name spilling from Jack, over, and over, and over.

* * * *

“Was that okay?” Kent asks as they’re laying in bed after. 

“Do you really have to ask?”

“Positive feedback is an essential component of leadershi--”

“I cannot believe you’re quoting back that stupid workshop at me.” Jack yawns. “It was good.” He’s sprawled out over Kent, his head on his chest, slowly smothering him. 

Kent is going to need to move so he can breathe soon, but he’s not going to ignore that he’s in the perfect position to flick Jack’s ear, so he does. “Good but not great?” 

“Ow. I will suffocate you with a pillow, I swear to god.” 

It makes Kent laugh, and he can feel the warmth spread through his chest. “Great idea, smother your alternate right before playoffs.”

“Don’t laugh at me.”

Kent wiggles out from under Jack so they’re face to face, so close they’re breathing the same air, then kisses Jack softly. “We should go to sleep. Game tomorrow.”

“Mmm hmm.” Jack shift around for a minute, too sleepy to fight Kent for the better pillow, and closes his eyes. 

They drift off to sleep together. In Kent’s dreams, a door opens and closes, the imagined click of the latch waking him enough to realize that Jack’s wrapped himself around him like he was a giant teddy bear. 

He glances at the alarm clock and kisses the top of Jack’s head. “Hey, wake up. Alarm’s in five.”

Jack makes a sad noise and shoves his face into Kent’s armpit. 

When the alarm rings, Jack reaches over to hit snooze, then yawns in Kent’s face before he kisses him. They make out, morning breath and all, and Jack jerks him off slowly, and god, Kent’s going to have another hickey.

He grins through breakfast, his hoodie strings pulled tight enough to hide any evidence.

* * * *

The last game is a cakewalk, and the boys all linger in the locker room, not really wanting a great season to end.

A third of them hope to not be back next season, praying that if they get drafted they’ll make it to the roster. 

There’s a charge in the air, an anticipation that trails Kent as he and Jack head home. Playing a regulation game wasn’t enough to dispel whatever is itching under his skin, but maybe the party tonight will be.

After dinner is done, Kristen grabs him and tugs him toward the front door. “We have things to discuss. Put on your coat.”

“We can go to the den.”

“It’s confidential.” She holds up Jack’s keys and jingles them.

“Do not tell me he is letting you drive his car when he won’t even let me.”

Kristen rolls her eyes. “We’re not going anywhere, we’re going to sit car and talk.”

He grabs his coat and gloves and soon enough is sitting in the passenger seat. Kristen fiddles with the controls to blast the heat. “Hey, heated seats! Nice.”

“This is ridiculous. We could be inside --”

“So,” Kristen says, cutting him off. “Here’s the thing. I got my period last night --”

“Gross.”

“Yeah, no, we can have a discussion about that comment later, but anyway, I needed to wash my pjs and a blanket, so I went downstairs to do that, but I couldn’t figure out the buttons, so I stuck my head in your room.”

The sound of the door latching in his dream.

It’s a weird feeling, knowing the blood is draining from your face, Kent thinks, because at the same time your heart kind of clenches and where does all that blood go?

“Hey.” Kristen waves her hand in front of Kent’s face. “You -- wow, you got pale.”

He might throw up. “You can’t tell anyone.”

“I wouldn’t. I won’t.” She leans over the console and wraps him in a hug. The angle is awkward and the gearshift is probably digging into her kidneys or something, but Kent just clings as she strokes his hair. 

“It’s okay. It’s okay, I swear. I’m happy for you, ok?”

Through his frenetic heartbeat he can feel the faint pull of something else, something good. “No one else knows.”

“I swear I won’t tell.”

Kent pulls back, and Kristen settles back into her seat, one arm still around his shoulders, heavy and comforting. 

He scrubs at his face. He has no idea when he started crying. “I mean, now you know.”

Confusion flits across Kristen’s face. “Riiiiight. I know.”

“Yeah. So. That’s, uh. Kind of.”

“Nice?” Kristen fills in.

Kent considers this. “I don’t know. Maybe. I don’t know.”

“Kent,” Kristen says, drawing in a deep breath, “Do you love him?”

“Shut up. Shut up, you can’t - I don’t -- “

“Hey, hey, sorry, sorry. I just, you guys looked really -- it’s nice that you have a boyfriend.”

“Jack isn’t my boyfriend.”

“Right.”

“I mean, Jack’s -- uh.” He falters, unable to find words. “He’s Jack. Zimms. You know. He’s not --- this is stupid.” His breathing is picking up.

Kristen leans over to hug him again, her hold surprisingly crushing. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

“I will kick Jack’s ass if I have to.”

“It’s a really good ass.” It slips out, and Kent can feel himself blush.

“Gross.”

When they get back inside, Kent goes downstairs to change for the party, tossing Jack his keys. As he passes him on his way to grab a clean shirt, he reaches out and runs his fingers up Jack’s arm. “You almost ready? Remmy’s DD. He’ll be here in ten.”

“Still on antibiotics for that cold?”

“Yup.”

“Kristen said you had family stuff to discuss. All good?”

Kent pulls a sweater over his head and turns to look at Jack. He’s in that fucking blue cashmere that does unreal things to his eyes. “Your sweater is going to get ruined.”

“Statistically, I’m not going to get beer spilled on me every party.”

“Your funeral.”

Remmy’s on time in his shitty Civic, but they leave late because Kent and Kristen get in a fight about her going with them. “You are fifteen! You are not going to a party full of guys!”

“This is very sexist of you,” Kristen counters, trying to kick Kent in the shin. He goes in pinch her arm, but she bats his hand away.

“You have been around my asshole teammates for years, how on earth are they still appealing to you?” She successfully lands a pinch, but his coat is too thick for him to feel it. “Hah!”

Jack and Remmy, both only children, stand to the side.

Eventually Jan intervenes, laughing hard at Kristen’s pleas and ushering her back into the house.

“Victory,” Kent whispers, as he climbs in the back seat.

* * * *

It takes three hours for someone to spill beer all over Jack, and when it happens Kent is draped over his lap, so he gets doused too. “Fuck,” Jack says, pulling at his sweater to assess the damage. “Don’t say it.”

“Say what?

“I saw the look on your face.”

“Oh? Was it the look of I told you so?” They’re both slurring, the jungle juice they’ve been downing for hours doing its job superbly.

Jack shoves at Kent till he gets up and they both head toward the bathroom unsteadily. Their spot on the couch is immediately taken. Dammit. 

The line is insane, so Kent tugs on Jack’s hand and leads him around the corner to the roped off stairs, ducking under when the hallway clears out. There are a couple people making out in the hallway. Kent tries a couple doors, but they’re all locked.

Jack groans. “The lines are gonna be even longer, now.”

“It’s cool.” The locks are the shitty ones you can pop easy, so Kent pulls out his ID and picks a door at random. A quick slide of the card, a pop of the lock, and the door opens revealing a pristine bathroom.

“Whoa,” Jack says, tripping on the bathmat while Kent locks the door behind them. “Where’d you learn that?”

“The mean streets of Buffalo.” It’s a bad joke, but Jack starts giggling, and it’s contagious, and Kent might fall over between the beers and the laughter, so instead he tips into Jack, his head on his shoulder. “You’re so drunk.”

“So are you.” 

“You’re so -- “ he searches through the haze for the right word, but all that comes out is, “You smell like beer.”

They halfheartedly dab at their sweaters with the monogrammed hand towels on the shelf, but it’s a lost cause. Jack has the brilliant idea to look under the sink for a hairdryer, but he loses his balance and ends up on the floor, pulling Kent down to him when he laughs at him. They wrestle for a few minutes, but the space is narrow and Kent taps out, Jack hovering over him. 

He reaches up and traces a circle on Jack’s chest. “You should get a tattoo right here.”

“Of what?”

“A wolf.”

‘A wolf?”

Kent nods firmly, then pulls Jack down. “A wolf,” he whispers in his ear, then bites down gently, feeling Jack shudder. 

They grind against each other, movements sloppy and uncoordinated, panting into each other’s mouths more than kissing, but so good, and Kent is so close to coming when there’s a bang on the door. 

“Hey, who’s in there. I gotta piss.”

Jack stills, but Kent wraps his legs around him and digs his heels into his ass. “Don’t fucking stop.”

“There’s someone right there, we have to --”

“Just be quiet,” Kent whispers, and thank god Jack starts moving again, pressing in harder, and that’s all it takes. 

It takes a few seconds for him to collect himself and sit up, the guy outside still banging on the door. Jack moves to stand up, still hard in his jeans, but Kent grabs his hand and keeps him there, leaning against the cabinet. He says, loud enough to carry over the throb of the music from downstairs, “We’ll just be a second. Uh, my buddy is sick. Hang on.”

Before Jack can say anything, Kents got his jeans unzipped and his cock out, and it only takes a couple strokes till Jack’s coming all over Kent’s hand and his stomach. 

When they come out a few minutes later, there’s a guy they don’t know squinting at them. “You guys both look kind of rough, man. Maybe you should go home?”

“Yeah,” Jack says, slinging his arm around Kent’s shoulder. “Let’s find Remmy.”

They make it home, and Kent’s pretty sure they make enough noise getting to their room that they’re in for a lecture the next morning. They’re sticky absolutely everywhere and barely manage to wash up at the sink. 

He wakes up upside down in bed, wearing Jack’s Hab jersey, with his feet in Jack’s face. He reaches down and feels along the floor, the strap of his camera just close enough, taking care to angle the shot for maximum ridiculousness. He moves his feet just enough to get a clear view of Jack’s face. 

This is totally going to end up on some sort of career retrospective in twenty years. 

The flash makes Jack stir, and Kent moves too quickly to hide the camera, his head spinning. “Fuck, I’m still drunk.”

“Me too,” Jack says. “Worth it.”

“Yeah,” Kent agrees. “Totally.”

* * * *

They have a week in Montreal before playoffs. They spend the time working out and playing tourist with Kristen until she has to leave, with intervals of Bob teaching Kent how to golf. He realizes Bob is using his competitiveness against him, but it’s really good motivation on the driving range, and if he improves his swing enough he’ll get rewarded with fancy golf shoes.

Jack spends most of his time giving him epic side-eye and complaining about his handicap.

Kristen goes home, and Alicia and Bob go out of town for two nights; Jack and Kent raid the wine cellar and pass the time drinking and fooling around after their training sessions. 

The Zimmermann’s giant deck overlooks the pond in the backyard that they turn into a rink in the winter, and Kent’s lost in thought about what he might have in his backyard, once he starts making NHL money. A pool, for sure. Maybe a rink, but it seems like kind of a pain when he can just use the facilities of whatever team he’s playing for. Maybe a guest house that Jack will never use because Kent’s getting a California Queen and like, a zillion thread count sheets, and more pillows than make sense. 

It’s easier, now, this close to it, so much hard work paying off, to daydream like this without freaking out, easier to let Jack sit beside him, move his heavy body over him, out in the open, blocked by the tall trees and the dark, but still without the safety of shut doors. 

To think that he can have this, all of this. 

When Jack sinks to the wooden floor and tugs Kent’s hips to the edge of the chair, he can let out the kind of noises he’s so desperately tried to swallow in the past, loud enough that he’s a little taken aback by it. 

He watches the stars as Jack sucks him off. It’s slow and a little hesitant. Kent comes embarrassingly fast and doesn’t even care.

That night, wrapped up in fresh sheets in Jack’s bed, Kent pinches his arm, just to make sure it’s all real. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me, before writing this whole thing: "You know, Jack and Kent probably exchanged a few handjobs or something, I kind of doubt their awkward teenage selves really got up to all that much."
> 
> Me, as I actually write this: "...huh, guess they're having a lot of sex."
> 
> *shrug emoji*
> 
> Thank you as always to summerfrost for the beta.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Championships and all that they entail.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We’re going to be handwaving/modifying/straight up ignoring actual events of the 2009 Memorial Cup, such as location and participants for story reasons -- like, actually Rimouski only played because they were host, and they didn’t do great, which obviously does not work for my purposes -- but if you’ve made it this far you’ve probably gotten accustomed to turning a blind eye to Hockey Inaccuracies, and I thank you for it, kind reader. I do want to point out, though, that Jamie Benn was the IRL points leader that year because if I have to learn random hockey trivia you can sure bet I’m making you learn it, too.

It’s two days before the last game in the final round of the playoffs. Drummond’s taking them to seven, and Kent’s a walking, aching bruise.

Even though she’s coming up tomorrow, he just really needs to hear his mom’s voice. 

His phone is dead, so he picks up the landline and has the receiver to his ear before he realizes someone’s already on it, and before he can get out a quick apology and hang up, Jack’s voice is there, a timbre that Kent knows down to his bones. 

It’s all wrong. 

The commanding confidence of his captain’s voice is absent, as is the bored cadence of his French that takes over when he talks to his parents. “It -- the playoffs last year, we didn’t -- I don’t know. If we don’t win, then it will, I mean, I will --” 

Kent’s stomach starts to hurt. He’s heard this voice before, laying next to Jack in the middle of the night after his panic attack subsides, after he stops shaking, curled in on himself, teeth clenched and trying to respond to Kent as he grasps for anything to say that will make it better. 

A shuddering sigh comes across the line, then, so soft Kent almost misses it, “I don’t know what this is but I hate it.”

A woman’s voice responds, measured and slow and definitely not Alicia Zimmermann. “Can you think of a time you felt similarly?”

He sets the phone down carefully, so carefully.

He ventures upstairs a little after 4, the time when what he had thought were Jack’s “hockey talk with Bob” conversations usually end, to find Jack digging through the fridge, coming up with half a layer cake and a leftover container of chicken and noodles. He sets it down and, when he sees Kent, adds a bag of grapes and some chips. 

They don’t bother to heat up the noodles, eating straight out of the pan. They’ve been hungry for what feels like months, each game more important than the last, each practice pushed as far as possible, and then further. 

Kent nods off while everyone’s watching a rerun of Friday Night Lights, the couch soft and inviting, and wakes to Madeleine jabbing him in the ribs. “Jack is snoring,” she says.

“Poke him, then,” Kent mutters, rubbing at his eyes.

“He is too far away. You do it.”

“I’m up,” Jack grumbles from somewhere to Kent’s left, his words interrupted by a yawn. He stands and grabs Kent’s hand, tugging at him to follow him downstairs. It’s late enough that they can go to sleep for real, anyway. 

Madeleine immediately flops into their warm spot. 

Kent’s already under the covers by the time Jack finishes rustling through the pile of clothes on the couch that they never bothered to put away after their last roadie. “Don’t,” Kent says as Jack moves to tug on an old t-shirt. 

Jack shrugs and tosses it aside, then sits on the edge of the bed, grabbing his pill bottle from the nightstand. 

“Didn’t you take one this morning?” Kent asks, watching him follow it with the glass of water that Kent had brought down for himself.

Jack falls onto the bed, all elbows and knees and all over Kent. “S’fine.”

“You’re the worst.” Kent pushes and prods till Jack rolls off, ending up facing away on his side. He reaches out a hand and hits Kent’s hip, ineffectively tugging at him till Kent gives in and presses himself against Jack’s back, the skin to skin contact soothing away the rough edges of his day. He presses his face against the span of Jack’s shoulders, uses his arm to pull Jack as close as he can, rests his hand over Jack’s heart, its beat steady and strong. 

“Kenny?” Jack asks, his voice slurred with sleep.

“Yeah?”

A long pause stretches, and Kent wonders if Jack fell asleep until he puts his hand over Kent’s. “Think we’re going to win?”

“Don't tempt fate.” Jack’s running his fingers over the back of Kent’s hand, gentle and soft, and a few minutes of that is calming enough that when Jack whispers something, Kent’s too far gone to reply.

When he wakes up in the morning, he can’t remember what Jack said.

* * * *

The sound of a car door being shut in the driveway is all it takes for Kent to jump up from lunch and soak his sneakers running through what’s left of the snow from last week’s storm to hug his mom. 

“Hi baby,” she says, kissing the top of his head. “I missed you.”

“You saw me last week.” His voice is muffled against her coat.

“I still missed you.” She straightens up and holds Kent by the shoulders, cocking her head to one side. “Did you get taller?”

Kent swats her hands away. “Oh my god, stop.”

“Hi Sue,” Jan calls from the side door. “C’mon in and have some lunch, and let me know if you want me to yell at Kent for being outside without a coat the day before he plays for the President’s Cup or if you’ve got that covered.”

“Two moms for the price of one,” he mumbles as he grabs a suitcase out of the backseat. 

After lunch, he and Jack leave for one of the tensest practices he can remember, Jack practically vibrating beside him on the bench. The team’s adrenaline is tipping into something caustic, and if they let it go there, they’re going to lose.

“Hey, this is shit.” Kent taps Jack’s skate with his stick. “All-Stars.”

“Do you really think --”

“Yes.”

Jack looks out over the ice. “Goddammit,” he says before skating over to the coaches and having a conversation in which he points at Kent at least twice.

The next hour is absolute insanity. Kent wins the speed round, of course. There’s a trick shot round that ends up being impossible to judge, stick handling competitions that Kent knows Jack loses on purpose and an incredibly stupid final round where their two goalies take shots from center ice. 

If they lose tomorrow, Jack will never forgive him for wasting their final practice on this. But, the locker room is lighter and the boys are smiling when they leave, and Jack knocks his shoulder into Kent’s when they’re walking to the car, so it’s probably okay.

He hopes.

That night, Kent pops one of his own pills after dinner. He felt guilty about it at first, staring at the Oceanic charity calendar on the wall behind the doctor’s desk as he parroted what Jack had told him to say, how the stress of playoffs was getting to him, and how the draft was always on his mind, and he just was worried that it would affect his game, and the script had been issued easily as anything, along with a list of side effects and other stuff that Kent had shoved into his backpack and forgotten about. 

It’s not like what he said in the office was totally a lie. He is stressed, and in the past few weeks no one has been having parties or really hanging out because everything had gotten really serious real fast at the end of the season. Last year, they weren’t contenders and they knew it. This year they knew they were, and it lit a fire that had taken them to being one game away from a chance to play for the Memorial Cup.

Kent will take any help he can get if it lets him sleep through the night. 

While the moms and Tim chat over decaf at the kitchen table, Jack and Kent and Maddie rollerblade to burn off steam, flying under the streetlights, returning home pink-cheeked and breathless for a round of peppermint tea and homemade cookies before bed. Kent’s mom sits close next to him and runs her fingers through his hair just like she did when he was little, and he’s not sure why tears prickle at his eyes.

He’s probably just really tired.

Later, Jack shoves down his pajama pants and then Kent’s, whispering, “I thought of something,” and then wrapping his hand around both of their dicks, lotion from one of the hundreds of hotels they’ve stayed at easing the way. He moves slow, and Kent can’t stop making little hitching gasps against his collarbone at the feeling of Jack hot against him. He might be scratching Jack’s shoulder as he holds on to him, but Jack’s not complaining; Kent moves so he can see his face and it’s a mistake because they lock eyes and Kent can’t look away, even when he comes, even when Jack does.

His body goes slack, after, sinking deeper into the bed, dazed enough that he doesn’t even complain when Jack wipes his hand on the quilt and pulls Kent close, pressing their foreheads together.

“I’m scared,” he whispers.

“Same.” Kent puts one hand behind Jack’s head, lightly running his nails across the nape of his neck. “I think we’re supposed to be.”

“If we don’t win, they’ll say --”

“And if we do, they’ll say. Whatever we do, they’ll say things.” 

“That’s not helping.”

Kent laughs, low and quiet. “Go to sleep.”

Jack frowns, but he pulls the covers up and closes his eyes.

It’s warm under the covers, legs and arms wrapped around each other, safe from the dark and the cold and the expectations pressing down on them. He doesn’t make countdown calendars anymore; he doesn’t need one to tell him how many days it is before they’ll be called up onto a stage in Montreal, tugging jerseys on over their suits and squinting into the flash of cameras, futures certain yet diverging. 

Tomorrow’s the beginning of the end, no matter what. But here, till morning, they’re safe. 

* * * *

Everyone in the arena is on their feet and screaming, but all Kent can hear is his heart beating in time with the clock as it runs down to zero, then Jack screaming in his face as he practically knocks Kent over in a crushing hug, because they did it. 

They won. 

The chaos on the ice is immediate. 

Kent can feel his teammates pounding him on the back, and they’re saying things, but Jack isn’t letting go and Kent can’t tell if it’s sweat or tears running down his face where it’s buried in Jack’s shoulder. He smells terrible, but so does Kent, and despite the solid ice below them, despite the sharp edge of Jack’s armor pressed into his cheek, he’s having a hard time believing it.

They won. 

Everyone hugs him and he can’t make out all the words but everyone is crying and smiling, his mom and Jan and Tim and Alicia. Maddie was the first one of them on the ice, and she squeezed him hard enough that he’d be breathless from that alone if he weren’t already gasping from the game and from the elation, the likes of which he’s never felt before.

He skates by the cameras and makes Robbie’s sign, and then it’s all a whirl till Jack hands him the cup, their fingers brushing and Jack beaming, and they’re holding it together and it’s so much more than enough, it’s everything. 

Soon, they’ll play for the Memorial Cup. Soon, they’ll survive the combine and the draft, and whatever comes after. 

But for now, they’re invincible. 

* * * *

Kent’s not sure who decided the Memorial Cup should be held in the middle of nowhere in godforsaken Manitoba this year, but he’d like to punch them. The trip to Brandon is exhausting -- a six-hour bus ride to Montreal, a flight to Winnipeg, and then another bus, all after playing 4 rounds of high stakes playoff games. 

As tired as they all were last night, the fact that Jack is still in bed at eight o’clock in the morning is freaking him out. Their alarm went off at least twenty minutes ago. 

Kent decides it’s time to take matters into his own hands.

“Get. Out. Of. Bed!”, he grunts as he pulls at Jack’s feet. It successfully moves him down the bed, but then Kent’s back hits the dresser and he’s out of room. “C’mon, man,” he whines. “Our asshole teammates are going to eat all the breakfast.” 

Jack managed to drag the pillow covering his head down with him. “S’fine, there’s room service,” comes out muffled. 

“You are a spoiled brat, and you’re still gonna have to do interviews and you know it.” It’s easier for Kent to just get in the shower himself, get dressed in their new team sweats, then fill up the ice bucket with cold water and dump it unceremoniously on Jack’s chest.

He books it out of the room and is on his second waffle before Jack comes down, calmly takes Kent’s Blue Jays hat off his head and pours an entire jug of maple syrup into it. 

Kent schools his face to avoid looking sulky in front of the reporters — there wasn’t time to do anything about his hair, which is somehow both flat from his now ruined hat and wild at the front and sides.

He only half needs to pay attention as his teammates field questions, softballs about the pressure of the Memorial Cup and strategies for tomorrow’s game. He’s pretty zoned out until he feels Jack stiffen next to him as he’s addressed.

“So Jack, you’ve been on fire since World Juniors. Think this is the start to a legacy that’s even bigger than your father’s?”

“I just play the game one shift at a time.”

“Well you’ve made a huge contribution to Oceanic. How does your leadership play into you being here?”

“It’s a team effort. We all bring 110% to the ice.”

The reporter gives up and turns his attention to Kent. “Speaking of teammates, Parson, Team USA placed 5th in January at World Juniors. Do you think this tournament is a way to redeem yourself from that loss before the draft?”

“Nah, the rest of the season was a pretty dece redemption arc, you know? Plus, if we’d won they’d never have let me back into Quebec, and poutine withdraw is real, man.”

It gets a laugh, then Jack leans forward into the mic.

“Kent was the leading scorer for the US in that series.”

“So you’re saying he’s not a team player?” another reporter asks.

“That’s not -- he’s a team player.”

Kent slings an arm around Jack’s shoulder. “Me and Zimms here love our boys. We win together, we lose together.”

“I hear you party together, too.”

“Heh, well. You know. Can’t be a role model all the time.”

He can hear the coaches groan from five seats over. 

After a short practice, more to acclimate to the arena than to really sweat, the boys split off for the afternoon, their last chance to relax before the insanity of the tournament really begins. Kent joins the half-dozen heading to the movies, and Jack falls asleep on his shoulder halfway through Adventureland. The movie goes by without Kent taking in a second of it, his mind running every possible outcome of the tournament over and over and over. 

It’s a relief when the credits roll. He elbows Jack, who stretches and yawns. 

“Swear to god, the Stanley Cup will be a breeze after this shit,” Jack says. His hair is a mess and he has popcorn stuck in the folds of his hoodie’s neck. “At least we won’t be in fucking Manitoba, we’ll -- oh.”

“Yeah,” Kent says.

They’re silent all the way back to the hotel.

 

* * * *

“Save me from our parents,” Kristen says as she shoves her way into Jack and Kent’s hotel room. Everyone’s families have been trickling in. Kent’s are among the last. He’s not bitter that Remmy and his dad are out with the Zimmermans instead of him. Not at all. 

“How are you here before Mom and Dad?”

Kristen pauses whatever crazy leg bend she’s doing on the second bed. “I dunno, they told me they needed to not see or hear any teenagers for at least an hour, and when I told them good luck on that at a hockey thing specifically for teenagers, they kind of shoved me in the elevator and ran out the door.”

Kent’s not sure how she manages to shrug while she has the sole of her foot against the back of her head. “First of all,” he says, “the teams have lots of older players, and second, stop the leg thing, you’re freaking me out.”

She sticks her tongue out at him. “Where’s Jack?”

“Dinner. If mom and dad went out what are we doing?”

“They gave us money to order delivery. Can we get -- “

“No.”

“Aww, you don’t even know what I’m going --”

“Do you know how much sushi I have to eat to get in my calories? Italian.”

“Burgers.”

“Fine.”

When Jack gets back, they’re sprawled in the spare bed, grease-spotted cardboard containers everywhere, fighting over the remote, Kristen trying to force Kent to admit he totally wants to watch Hannah Montana reruns, which he does, while he argues for The Simpsons.

“Oh, good, Jack, you get to decide.” Kristen puts her hand over Kent’s mouth and doesn’t even flinch when he licks her palm. “Hannah Montana or The Simpsons?”

Jack, doing his best impression of a deer in headlights, looks at them both, then turns and leaves the room.

“Your boyfriend is a chicken,” Kristen says, giving up and grabbing for the Sports Illustrated on the nightstand. 

“Stop.”

“Whatever, he should be buttering me up --”

“Not here, ok? It’s not -- just don’t.”

She lowers the magazine so she can look at him, her eyes darting over to the other bed, then back. “You”re right. I’m sorry. We can watch whatever you want.”

It takes a second for Kent to respond. “Uh, thanks?”

“I support your television choices.”

“Ooo-kay?”

“Especially the totally weird but still nice shows that are very handsome and have great butts.”

Kent pitches himself forward onto the bed, smothering his groan in the duvet. “I hate you so much. Can we find mom and dad?”

“I hate you, too. C’mon, they’re on the 8th floor.”

* * * *

The Voltigeurs almost take them to OT. Remmy saves their asses, getting the puck to Kent with twenty seconds left in the third. Kent, knowing from the second it touches his tape that it’s as good as in, sends it down the ice to Jack, who slaps toward the goal without a second glance. The intake of breath in the arena is audible, as is the giant exhaled when the puck sails in, just beyond the tips of the goalie’s fingers.

That night, they pile into Jonesy and Bammer’s room. The room is packed with bodies and the tub is packed with beer and ice. It’s hot and loud, everyone working off the jittery energy of the win. They’ve got a day before their next match and everyone’s on the same page about needing to blow off some steam. 

Kent and Jack end up sitting on the floor under the little table by the window, slumped into each other, taking pulls off of what’s left of Jack’s beer. Jack’s hand is low on Kent’s back, his fingers slipped under the waist of Kent’s jeans, dipping low enough to be something new, and Kent tries to focus on that.

Jesus, he’s so fucking drunk. He didn’t mean to be, but it’s kind of nice, and oh, Jack’s moving his hand even lower and Kent’s not so far gone that he doesn’t gasp. He’s half drowsy and half turned on, and doesn’t know what to do about either of those things.

They don’t notice the room getting quieter little by little. “Alright, the party’s over.” Jonesy crouches down and squints at them. “Jesus Christ, how hammered are you?” 

“Your mom’s a hammer,” Kent slurs, and Jack burp-laughs into his ear, stilling his hand but not moving it.

“Solid, Parser. Fuck, you guys are never gonna make it back to your room. C’mon, you’re passing out here.”

They manage to half crawl, half roll out from the table. Bammer ends up more or less scruffing Kent and manhandling him into a bed. He feels Jack landing next to him, then hears, “Yeah, I only saw them have a couple. Fuckin’ lightweights -- no, don’t take the side by the wall, you know that’s where I sleep. Oh, you asshole. Next time we’re letting the kids sleep in the hallway, I swear to god, is this what your girlfriend puts up with? Oh, wait, you don’t have a -- OW fucker, god, we are never doing this again.”

He passes out.

* * * *

There’s a halo of light around the edges of the curtains when Kent opens his eyes, so it must be morning, but still early enough that their alarm hasn’t gone off. He rolls in Jack’s arms and pushes his face into his chest. Instead of detergent and soap, he smells beer.

He sits up fast, too fast, the room spinning.

“Hey, take it easy,” Jonesy whispers from somewhere to his left. “Close your eyes, take a couple deep breaths, and keep it down cause Bammer’s still asleep.”

Kent does, closing his eyes for a long minute. He can hear a tv through the wall. He can feel Jack’s legs under his, hears him snuffle and move closer, slinging an arm over Kent’s lap and making a happy noise as he pulls himself closer. He takes in a deep breath and opens his eyes.

Jonesy is sitting in the armchair by the bed, a maniacal grin on his face. “I am going to chirp you till the end of time.”

Kent clears his throat, hoping the noise will distract Jonesy from seeing the covers move where he’s kicking Jack.

“I feel like shit,” Jack murmurs in his rumbly morning voice that Kent normally loves. He sits up slowly. “Why are you kicking me? Shit, did we forget the alarm?” He rubs at his face and Kent feels the moment he freezes. “Uh, hey. We’re...not in our room, huh?”

Jonesy snorts. “Sharp eyes, Sleeping Beauty. You cuddly fuckers got so plastered last night we couldn’t risk sending you back. I think Coach would have torn you a new one if he’d found you stumbling through the halls.”

“Uh, thanks?” Jack says. His hand that’s under the covers is gripping Kent’s wrist hard enough to bruise. 

“No problem. Now get the hell out of my room, lovebirds.” 

Kent can feel himself go pale.

“Christ, Parser. You look like you’re going to puke. Jack, you good to take care of your boy?”

“Yeah.” 

Jonesy presses a bottle of Gatorade into each of their hands as they walk past him. “Oh, and fellas? Don’t worry. I won’t tell anyone you’re clingy bitches. I’m saving it for blackmail once you’ve got that sweet NHL money.”

“Haha, fair enough.” Jack pushes at the small of Kent’s back to get him moving, and they head out, shutting the door quietly. 

Once they’re back in their room, Kent throws the deadbolt and faces Jack. “What do we do?”

“Don’t know.”

Kent runs his fingers through his hair, tugging at it, the little jolt of pain clearing his head. “This is a big fucking problem.”

Jack doesn't say anything, he just walks to his duffle, pulling out an Oceanic hoodie. “I can’t deal with you right now. I’m going jogging.” He’s changed into running tights and is out the door before Kent can recover enough to say anything.

They manage to avoid each other outside their mandatory practice and what feels like a million media events, where they keep their conversation to a curt, careful minimum. Their teammates don’t really react.

They’ve seen it before. 

They have to pose for team pictures, and of course, they’re posed side by side, the C and the A on their sweaters guaranteeing it. 

As they go to leave, Remmy walks beside Kent, pulling him in with an arm around his shoulder. “I don’t want to be a child of divorce.”

“Huh?” Kent’s busy glaring at the back of Jack’s head from where he’s a good dozen steps ahead.

“When mom and dad fight, the children get worried, hey, OW!” Remmy rubs at his chest. “You missed my nipple.”

“No I didn’t.”

“No, you didn't,” Remmy concedes. “What is it you call these?”

“Titty twister or purple nurples.” 

He shoves Kent. “Eugh, English.”

That night there’s a big team dinner with families, and Kristen watches Jack and Kent glare at each other from across the room through the main course. She hisses “get your shit together” in his ear and leaves to eat dessert with their parents. 

“I will not,” Kent mutters to himself.

Their curfew is early, though, and soon enough he and Jack are face to face in their hotel room. 

Kent’s been rehearsing what he’s going to say the whole day, adding and subtracting from “Go fuck yourself,” but when he swings the door shut, and Jack stands up from where he was sitting on the edge of their bed, the words dry up in his throat.

“Don’t make me do this without you,” Jack says, gossamer soft. He’s swaying slightly as he stands, wearing a Sabres t-shirt that was always too big on Kent. Jack’s been stealing it for weeks and has stretched the neck out, exposing the sharp jut of his collarbone. 

Jack is big, and Jack is strong, but Kent knows his soft spots, spots not everyone feels, thin skin over bone, the dip of a clavicle, the taste of salt that sweat leaves behind, the shudder his fingers can bring when used just right.

There’s no bruise there now, but Kent knows the history of that terrain, knows what’s healed and what ghosts still remain. 

He wills his tongue to work, his lips to move, fighting his traitorous body that wants nothing more than to press itself against Jack. “I’m right here.”

“I know but -- I need you really here. You’re my A. You’re my A and my -- Kenny. Please.”

Jack’s not supposed to look like this, his hands hanging by his side, uncertain. He’s supposed to be the thing Kent chases across the ice, the thing that he’s been breaking himself to follow. 

Kent’s gotten used to pushing back against things that should be immovable; he’s never learned how to push away Jack. 

“This is so much,” Kent says, laying back on the bed. “It’s so much. Just don’t be mad at me, ok? I’m sorry. Everything’s happening at once, you know.”

Jack lays down next to Kent and reaches for his hand. “I know.”

They fall asleep holding hands, and in the morning, the sun shines into their room through the unclosed curtain to wake them.

* * * *

 

They claw their way to the semifinals, where they play the Voltigeurs, again, and set a club record for the most penalties in a single game. Doesn’t matter though. Oceanic wins. 

Four thousand people watch as the puck drops in the finals at 4:32 pm and four thousand people watch two and a half hours later as the clock runs out at 7:01, Rimouski 4, Kelowna 1. 

They did it, and he’s done. 

He’s proven himself as much as he possibly could and in a few minutes he’s going to accept a trophy crowning his team as the winners of one of the most brutal competitions in all of the sports world. He’s secured his path to the NHL beyond his wildest dream.

They pile into a heap for the team photo at center ice. He has one hand on the trophy and one around Jack. There’s so much noise, so he leans in to yell in Jack’s ear. “Better than Canada?”

“Better with you,” Jack answers as the shutters snap.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kent survived two years of the Q, and so did we! I am totes buying myself a Rimouski shirt once they get new merch up! 
> 
> Thank you to every single one of you who have read, and thanks to summerfrost and selfsong for beta and cheerleading work. 
> 
> The next part of the series will cover the NHL Combine, summer, the draft, and the aftermath.
> 
> (You knew it was coming.)
> 
> Comments and kudos are very appreciated.


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